


These Violent Delights

by pasiphile



Series: This Life Is A Trip (When You're Psycho In Love) [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Class Issues, Dubious Consent, Dubious Ethics, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Graphic Violence, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Mental Health Issues, UST, Unhealthy Relationships, d/s dynamics, more specific warnings for each chapter in the notes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-07
Updated: 2013-11-25
Packaged: 2017-12-22 07:25:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 168,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/910519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pasiphile/pseuds/pasiphile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sebastian Moran is a rebel without a cause (literally - pro patria mori is a pile of shite). Jim Moriarty is an evil genius in need of a right hand (not literally - he’s already got one of those in the freezer). It's a relationship meant to be. </p><p>AKA The Life And Times of Sebastian Moran, Bastard Extraordinaire. Spanning seven years and three continents, containing 496 uses of the word "fuck", multiple murders, several criminal acts, a couple of explosions, a large amount of violence and sex (often combined), an utter disregard of rules and morals, and somewhere in the middle of this something that almost looks like a happy and loving relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue & The Sceptic

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks are in order: to the lovely people of LJ comm Britpicking for the little details; to eldritch-horrors, for kindly shedding her expert light on Irene Adler; to monstersqueen for making sure my French was, well, actual French; to ifellowedsleep who britpicked the first draft, despite my many attempts to dissuade him, and finally to percygranger, without whose infinite patience and kind encouragement this would have never grown beyond 20.000 words of disjointed scenes.
> 
> Comments will be loved and cuddled. Constructive criticism will be enshrined and worshipped.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which Seb Refuses To Believe In Omnipotent Master Criminals

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for classism, gunfights, graphic violence, minor character death

* * *

_“I happen to know who is the first link in his chain — a chain with this Napoleon-gone-wrong at one end, and a hundred broken fighting men, pickpockets, blackmailers, and card sharpers at the other, with every sort of crime in between. His chief of staff is Colonel Sebastian Moran, as aloof and guarded and inaccessible to the law as himself.”  
_

\- The Valley of Fear, A.C. Doyle 

_“The sniper must be able to calmly and deliberately kill targets that may not pose an immediate threat to him. It is much easier to kill in self-defense or in the defense of others than it is to kill without apparent provocation. The sniper must not be susceptible to emotions such as anxiety or remorse. Candidates whose motivation toward sniper training rests mainly in the desire for prestige may not be capable of the cold rationality that the sniper's job requires."_

\- U.S Army Field Manual: Sniper Training

_“[...] two brilliant blue eyes that were never still; they slid over you and away and back again. It was a strong face, but mean; even the rat-trap mouth had an odd lift at one side which, with the ever-shifting eyes, made it look as though he knew some secret joke about you.”_

\- Flashman And The Tiger, George MacDonald Fraser

_“Don’t be silly, someone else is holding the rifle.”_

\- Jim Moriarty

 

* * *

 

**Prologue: Kabul To London**

It's raining.

Even though it's sodding July, when even the UK should have the courtesy of being sunny. Not proper rain, no thunderstorm, but a sullen, half-arsed drizzle, typically English. You'd forgotten about the weather.

You'd forgotten about lots of things.

Like the people, masses of 'em, young and old, tourists and businessmen and everything in between. Most of them are ignoring you but some of the braver ones are throwing you curious looks. You can guess why: even in a city as mixed as London, you stand out. The stark tanlines at your wrists, the ugly twisted scar peeking from underneath the sleeve of your shirt, your posture. The way you can't relax even when you're smoking, constantly sizing people up, looking for potential threats.

You can take the man out of the army, and all that.

You shouldn't be here. London is far too expensive for someone with no money except the little that you've saved up, no proper job prospects – 'cause you might have been a hero to your regiment, but all your decorations and records and honourable fucking discharge don't mean a thing here. But you came anyway, because for the first time in your life you're free to make your own decisions and no one ever said they have to be _good_ ones.

And London, London is a whore of a city, who'll spread her metaphorical legs for any stranger with a charming smile. You might feel like a shark among guppies where you're standing right now, but there's more to this city than Paddington station.

The rain picks up a little, a rumble of thunder in the distance. People start ducking into doorways, hiding under their coats. A group of sodden teenagers stumble past and one of them eyes you curiously. You smirk at her and she blushes.

That's another thing you missed in the army. There weren't that many soldiers who were willing to risk their job for a quick fuck behind the barracks, but here... Well. Opportunities galore. And not just _those_ kind of opportunities either, because there might not be any legit jobs for an ex-soldier with a penchant for violence, but London's seedier circles are practically waiting for you.

Not that you expect to _find your place_ , or any drivel like that. You've been an outsider for all your life and that's not going to change now. Fuck it, you don’t even _want_ it to change, ‘cause if fitting in means being as gullible and idiotic as everyone else then you’ll gladly stay on the outside.

You drop the butt of your cigarette on the pavement, hoist your bag over your shoulder, and turn south, heading for Hyde Park.

 

* * *

 

**1\. The Sceptic**

_They're whispering his name_  
 _Through this disappearing land_  
 _But hidden in his coat  
_ _Is a red right hand  
_ _(Nick Cave – Red Right Hand)_

“Nothing quite like it, is there? Seeing London from this height?”

You close your eyes and try to block out last night’s bad decision’s nasal whine. You have the beginnings of a headache and the kid's been babbling nervously ever since he woke up.

“- wasn’t cheap of course, not here, but I thought it was worth it - "

Inane chattering without any real content. He’s probably regretting last night, and to be honest, so are you. Boys like him, bright-eyed and high on their own success - often literally - always seem attractive in the half-light of a club -

“Will you _shut up_ already?” you snap.

\- but they bring out your cruel streak. The kid winces, but you thinks he rather likes it, even if the repressed little sod isn’t admitting it yet. He'll probably take it out on his underlings when he gets back to work, the poor bastards.

And of course he doesn’t stop talking. His kind is _trained_ to keep yammering, and if someone else tells them to stop they only start speaking louder.

“So where - "

Luckily your phone starts ringing before you start feeling the urge to get violent. The kid falls silent, looking at you as you walk across the room to your trousers. Lots of people you’ve shagged have done that, staring at your legs and shoulders as you move around, fuck knows why.

You pick up. “Boss.”

A voice like gravel wheezes down your ear. “Moran. Where are you?”

You glance out of the window. “Belgravia.”

“Belgravia? What the hell are you – “ He pauses.

Glenson’s very first words to you were _I don’t care where you stick your cock as long as you can shoot straight_ , and that pretty much set the tone for the rest of the relationship. He doesn’t ask, you don’t tell.

Well, alright, occasionally you do tell, just to see the way his grizzled face freezes up. The old bastard is a dead ringer for Ray Winstone, and his disgusted-but-not-showing-it expression is never anything but highly entertaining.

“We’ve got to talk,” he says. “In half an hour, the Kings Arms, near Gracechurch Street. Know it?”

“Sure. But make it an hour,” you add, glancing at the kid again. “I’ve got something going on here.”

He sighs. “Fine. Just don’t give me any fucking details.”

“No fucking details, noted. See you there.” You hang up and put your phone back into your discarded jeans.

The boy is watching you, torn between rampant lust and healthy caution. “What did you say you do again? For a living, I mean?” he asks, ever so slightly suspicious.

You turn your head and smirk. “I’m a gun for hire.”

His eyes widen, but then he laughs, albeit a little nervously. Stupid little bastard thinks you’re joking, even though he’s seen your scars. Fascinated by them, he was. He can’t even tear his eyes away from them now. His eye is twitching a little as well, but that's most likely just nerves. Worrying if anyone can see the naked bloke posing in front of his picture window, even though to see you this high up they’d have to be using binoculars.

You turn back to the view, which is admittedly very impressive. A few towering buildings, glass and chrome, the Eye just barely visible in the distance. From here London looks new and modern, and _clean_. Talk about ivory towers.

“You don’t have a view where you live?” the boys asks, probably picking up on your fascination

“I, ah, do have a view,” you say. “It’s a lot less pretty than this one, though.”

“Really? Where do you live?”

“At Elephant, on the Aylesbury.”

Blank look. Should have guessed, little fuckers like him don’t know about anything beyond their safe bubble of luxury. Although the estate has been in the news a fair few times lately, usually with the words _urban decay_ and _sink estate_ attached.

“The kind of place you wouldn’t be seen _dead_ in,” you add with a certain amount of relish, and his eyes light up in interest, just like they had when you picked him up last night. You played up the _bit of rough_ act then, borrowed your neighbours’ accent, made the boy think he was being so delightfully transgressive.

Not that you have any right to judge him on _slumming_ , when you’re doing essentially the same. But there’s an honesty there that Belgravia lacks, fights out in the open instead of behind closed doors, in hushed voices. You wouldn’t go back to that stilted hypocrisy if they paid you for it.

“- long have you lived there?”

You turn your attention back to the kid. “Couple of months. I was abroad for a few years.”

And that’s the first tidbit that doesn’t quite fit the role you’ve been playing. He blinks, processing the new information. "What made you come back?” he asks.

And wasn’t that the loaded question? “Looking for excitement, I suppose.”

“Found any?”

“Infuriatingly little.”

The boy falls silent again. Oxford has been creeping back into your vowels, and you can practically hear the gears turning in his stupid little head. Wondering if he has made a mistake somewhere, if hasn’t bitten off more than he can chew.

But as amusing as it is, watching the kid slowly start to panic, he isn’t nearly fascinating enough to hold your attention for long. “Shower?” you ask, pouring as much sneering authority in your voice as you can manage.

“First door on the left,” he says, eyeing you warily. You leer at him and he twitches, and you can feel him staring at you again as you stroll naked to the hallway.

The shower is huge and has more knobs and dials than you know what to do with. It's definitely a welcome change from your own shower, which at best is like getting shot in the head by a jet of lukewarm water. You turn up the heat as high as you can bear and fall back to your thoughts.

Nothing’s _changed_ , that’s the truth. You’re still bored most of the time, you’ve still got a boss, and you still kill people for a living. The only real difference is your pay, but you don’t give a fuck about money anyway.

You tilt back your head and let the water scald your face.

London was supposed to be something new and different, but you still feel adrift in a way that’s got nothing to do with housing or jobs. With each day that passes it becomes more obvious that you don’t _belong_ here, and while you're more than used to that feeling by now, it still leaves you wanting something... something more.

The door opens and the kid – you still can't remember his name, lost in a haze of alcohol and sex – appears; apparently lust conquered caution in the end. He leers at you, disguising his discomfort and insecurity with cockiness, the way those boys always do. “Mind if I join you?”

You pull him in and okay, having a large shower definitely has its advantages.

***

You appear a little over an hour later in the pub, dressed in last night’s clothes and with one hell of a bite mark on your throat - little shit had surprisingly sharp teeth. Glenson takes one look at you and goes to the bar. You collapse into a chair and he comes back holding two pints.

“Isn’t it a bit early for that?” you ask.

“Hair of the dog.” He slides the glass at you. “Drink up.”

“I’m not hungover. I never get hungover.” But you drink anyway.

Glenson leans back, watching you carefully. “I’m leaving for Moscow in a few days. Staying there for two months. You can come, but..”

“But?”

“But it’s just standing around, watching my back. Boring stuff.” His eyes glint, which is Glenson’s minimalist way of smiling. He found out how you deal with boredom when you showed up for your second job for him with a black eye and bruised knuckles from a pub fight the night before.

“So what do I do while you’re there?” you ask.

“You stay here. There’s a couple of people I know, all looking for someone with brains.”

“Ah. _Networking_.”

“Yeah, who fucking knows who you'll meet.” He reaches inside his jacket and pulls out a grubby piece of paper. “First’s on Tuesday, if you’re up for it. They’ll split the pay halfway between you and me.”

You lean your glass against your chin. “You’re making me feel like a cheap whore being pimped out.”

He snorts. “Yeah, but you’re enough of a pervert to actually fucking _like_ that.”

You laugh and take the slip of paper. Just a date, a time, and a place. “Who’s in charge, then?” you ask idly.

He doesn’t answer immediately, and you look up. He’s almost-smiling again.

“What?”

“Sophia Kratides,” he says, like delivering the punchline of a joke.

You frown. “Kratides? That’s Greek, isn’t it?”

“Fuck if I know. She’s solid, that’s all I care about.” He squints at you. “So you haven’t got a problem with working for a woman, have you?”

“Why the fuck would I?” you say, smiling

“Most blokes get prissy about it.”

You shrug. “I don’t mind, as long as she’s good. Is she?”

“Yeah. Has to be, if she works for mori- for the money she gets.”

You blink, feeling as if you’re missing something. He’s not the stammering sort, Glenson. “Sorry?”

“She gets paid a lot for what she does,” Glenson clarifies, but he suddenly looks a bit uneasy, as if he said more than he wanted to. “But yeah, she’s good. Tough, too. Trigger-happy ball-busting mouthy bitch.”

“Sounds like my kind of girl,” you say, grinning.

“She tears the balls off blokes like you, Moran.”

“Blokes like me?”

He stands up. “I’ll call you. Try not to piss off too many important people, yeah?”

“ _Try_ being the imperative word here.”

He glares at you again. Either he’s trying to threaten you or he just doesn’t know what _imperative_ means. Either way, you’re unimpressed.

“I’ve no fucking clue how you stayed alive for this long, Moran,” he says, shaking his head.

You grin and put your hands behind your head. “Luck, skill, and bucketloads of charm.”

***

Sophia Kratides turns out to be every inch the bitch Glenson painted her to be. She strides in five minutes early, starts snapping orders at the other three men without as much as a _hi_ , and completely ignores you.

She’s also pretty easy on the eyes, in a very butch sort of way. Shortish, stocky, tousled black hair. Excellent arse. You ogle her as she orders the others around, and once she has sent off the last bloke you cough politely. She whirls and barks, " _What_?”

“Anything you’d like me to do?” you ask, all sweet and polite.

She gives you an unimpressed once-over. “You’re Glenson’s lad, right? The clever one.”

“I don’t like to brag.”

She snorts and jerks her thumb at the van. “Wait in there ‘til the others are finished.”

You give her a little salute - she rolls her eyes - and get in the back. Most of the equipment is already there. Well, _equipment_ : a couple of masks and gloves, a roll of duct tape. Tonight’s job is hardly complicated, and it baffles you why they wanted you here.

A couple of minutes later the door bangs open and Kratides gets in. She ignores you again, turns her back to you, and starts rummaging through the bags. She bends over, making her shirt ride up and revealing a very intriguing tattoo. You blink, cock your head, make sure you’re not mistaken. But no. Hell, that must be the most _literate_ tramp stamp you’ve ever seen.

“There are no pacts between lions and men,” you recite, eyes on the strip of bare skin.

“What?” she says sharply, turning around.

“The tattoo. Ouk esti leousi - "

“You know Greek?”

Oops. You try not to draw too much attention to your background, these days: a wealthy and privileged childhood isn’t something most people in the criminal world enjoy hearing about. Not that you really blame them for getting a little aggressive about it.

“Old Etonian,” you admit. “We got Homer shoved down our throats whether we wanted to or not. So I take it you're the lion?”

She sits down in front of you and pillows her chin on her hands, smirking, refusing to reply. It’s interesting, though. Kratides’ harsh Northern accent doesn’t exactly scream fellow-Oxonian, but where the fuck else does someone learn ancient Greek?

“It sounds pretty ominous,” you try again. “You planning on betraying the rest of us?”

“Are you questioning my leadership?” she asks, smile turning nasty. “Is it ‘cause I'm a woman? Am I making you feel insecure about your masculinity?”

“I don't take well to people in charge fucking up, tits or not. Although,” you smile, ‘they’re very nice t-”

“I don’t fuck up,” she says, narrowing her eyes.

“I’ve heard so many people say that that it’s lost all meaning, love.”

She cocks her head. “Do you know who I work for?”

“No-o, but I'm sure you're about to tell me.”

“Moriarty.” She leans back triumphantly, obviously expecting you to start cowering in fear and respect.

“Shaking in my boots,” you say, perfectly deadpan.

She frowns. “You know who he is, right?”

“No, but neither does anyone else, from what I've heard. I know what he's supposed to have done, though.”

“Supposed? You don't believe it?”

You lean forward. “Look, if even half of what they say is true he must be superhuman. So either he's very good at fabricating stories, or people got a bit over-imaginative of their own. I suspect the latter.”

“And what,” she says, leaning in as well, 'what if it's real? Do you want to take that chance? 'Cause I prefer to play it safe.”

Her eyes are very dark, and she’s close enough that you can feel her body heat, smell the scent of her hair - no perfume. "Very wise of you.” You lean closer, tilting your head.

“Just to make it clear, Moran...” she says slowly, licking her lips.

“Yeah?” Your eyes fall half-closed.

“I wouldn't shag a jumped-up arrogant _dickhead_ like you if you were the last man on Earth.” She puts her hand on your chest and pushes you back. You let her, message received, even if your pride is smarting a little.

“If you ask me,” she adds, "whoever punched you in the face had the right idea.”

You almost forgot about your split lip. Two nights ago, another pub fight, nothing serious, just your frustration boiling over again and the wrong words at the wrong time.

“You should see the other guy,” you say, smirking. She rolls her eyes at you.

The door opens and one of the flunkies sticks his head inside. “We’re finished.”

Kratides slams her hand on the side of the van and gets out. “Time to prove your worth, clever boy.”

“Will do.” No point in sulking, there’s work to do, after all. The other guys get in and Kratides walks around to the driver’s seat, leaving you to brood.

Moriarty. You’ve heard the rumours, of course - who hasn’t? Not that you believe them: an invisible man who never fails, who knows everything, who can do anything... It's wish fulfilment, or a cautionary tale the crime lords use to keep their lackeys in line.

_Better be good, kids, or Moriarty'll get you._

You smile and check your gun one last time. It will never cease to amaze you how gullible people can be.

***

“You were right, she is a bitch,” you say cheerfully when Glenson picks up after the second ring. Back in your shitty little flat, eyes on the stained wallpaper, phone squashed between your ear and shoulder.

“Moran,” Glenson says, unfazed. “How’d it go?”

“Balls still intact, in case you’re worrying.” You can practically _hear_ Glenson’s eyeroll. “It went fine, relax. Did you know she’s claiming to be working for Moriarty?”

Silence. Not the snort or sarcastic remark you were expecting, just a quick breath and then nothing.

“Glenson? What - "

“She isn’t the only one,” he says reluctantly.

“Only what?”

“Only one working for Moriarty.”

You drop your chair back onto the floor. “You mean _you_ \- "

“You need to be in Battersea tonight. Bodyguarding.”

“And who am I working for this time,” you ask sharply. “Fucking _Dracula_?”

“Bloke called Baldwin,” he says, ignoring you. “Bit of a wanker, but it’s work. They’ll pick you up at the Power Station, at six pm.”

 _‘Fine_ ,” you say, just a little bit frustrated. “But what about Mor-”

Dialling tone.

You really genuinely thought that Moriarty was make-believe, yet here is Glenson, the most aggressively _rational_ person you’ve ever met, claiming he works for the legend. Either he’s being scammed, which is unlikely - he’s not stupid, after all - or there’s a bit more truth to the rumours than you suspected.

And that last option... Well. It’s intriguing, to say the least.

You put your phone back on the table and head for the bathroom, whistling tunelessly.

***

“I'm telling you, something feels wrong,” you say for the third time this night.

The man in charge – he didn't even give his name, just snapped his fingers and expected you to follow – sneers at you. “And you expect me to call off a three million quid delivery 'cause your tummy's feeling upset? Fuck off, Moran. Go stand around and glower, that's what you're here for.”

You turn on your heel and stalk away. God, but you hate the stupid ones, you've served under enough idiots in the army to last a lifetime.

The last few jobs have almost all been like that. Baldwin turned out to be a reckless shit who got two of his men killed and barely seemed sorry about it. The one after that was a racist arsehole whose insults would have cost him a weapons deal if it hadn’t been for your carefully diplomatic interventions - good thing you’re still fluent in Arabic, although the accent was a bit of a stretch. And now this, being treated like a fucking guard dog, completely ignored.

It’s at times like this that you start thinking about Moriarty. When you're confronted over and over again with the morons who somehow got to the top of their little pile despite not knowing their arse from their elbow, the idea of someone who actually _knows what he's fucking doing_ quickly becomes irresistible. No wonder people start inventing stories.

Still, work is work, and at heart you’re a professional, so you leave your idiot of a boss and his two dogsbodies behind and go snoop around the terrain.

It’s an industrial estate on the fringes of London, and at this time of night it's completely abandoned, but there are potential hiding places everywhere. One in particular has been bothering you, a high tower-like structure which would be the ideal place for a sniper. Not that that's very likely, from what you've heard the party your boss is supposed to negotiate with is at least as stupid as the boss himself.

But still, something feels _off_. You prowl the area, looking for something to justify your uneasiness. You haven't survived this long by ignoring your instincts, after all.

And it seems they aren’t wrong this time either. You hear footsteps around the corner of a half-finished building. Lots of footsteps, in fact. You flatten yourself against the wall and creep closer, hidden in the shadows.

“Are you sure we're in the right place?” you hear someone whisper.

“Yeah, I've got the coordinates an’ everything.”

They’re coming closer. Judging by the sounds there are at least six of them, possibly more.

“And there's definitely only going to be four of them tops, right?”

The footsteps stop. “Look, Moriarty said so, yeah? Three, maybe four guys, won't expect a thing. You want to argue with Moriarty?”

A few seconds of heavy, significant silence.

“Yeah, I didn't think so. Okay, split up, three guys on each side. We'll surround them.”

You look very carefully around the corner.

There's twelve of them.

Twelve of them, heavily-armed, against four of you. And at least one of those four is a slow, fat idiot, and you don't have too much confidence in the other two.

You could go and warn them. Barricade yourself somewhere, there might be a chance, but it won't be easy, and you don't feel like putting yourself at risk for someone who's been annoying you all evening. The other option is quietly sneaking away and leaving them to fend for themselves; part of being a _professional_ is knowing when to strategically retreat, after all. No one is going to look at you funny for saving your own skin in a situation like this. 

So fuck 'em.

Your eyes go back to the tower. There's definitely movement. Someone is watching.

_Moriarty said so..._

Moriarty, the all-seeing genius.

In the distance the shooting starts. You start sprinting, no point in trying to be quiet now, and vault over the fence. You kick the back door of the tower open and hurtle up the stairs, three at a time. With any luck he won't even have seen you.

It crosses your mind that most people would run _away from_ , not _towards_ the notoriously evil criminal mastermind. There must be something seriously fucking _wrong_ with you that you didn't even hesitate.

You skid down the hallway and kick down the door of the room facing the battle ground below.

Too late.

On the other side of the room there's a door to a fire escape, half-open. He's left footprints, disturbed dust on the window sill. You walk over, glance outside. The window gives you a perfect view of the spot where the meeting was supposed to take place. The shooting has stopped and from here you can see four bodies, lying motionless on the gravel. At least they took one of their enemies with them. None of the surviving men is looking your way.

You turn and look around the room, trying to find clues, anything. There's something hanging by the door, something you took to be a peeling piece of wallpaper but turns out to be a post-it. _Well spotted, darling_ , it says, in round loopy handwriting, signed with two x's and an elegant M. You run your thumb over the writing and it smudges, ink still fresh. You must have missed him by less than a minute.

You turn on your heels and give the room another slow once-over. A flash of light catches your eye, and you crouch down, examining the floor carefully. Wedged between two floorboards there's a small, sparkly stone, with a tiny stud attached. You vaguely remember something like it on your father's dresser. Cufflinks, but what sort of pretentious wanker wears _diamond_ cufflinks?

You stand up and go back to the window. There's a clear handprint on the dusty wall. Without quite knowing why, you fit your own hand over it.

***

“Moriarty.”

“No.”

You raise your eyebrows. “What, no?”

Glenson looks up from the Daily Mail and glares. “No, I’m not telling you anything.”

“Why not?” You lean forwards, arms resting on your knees. “You’ve heard him, right? Know what he sounds like?”

“No.”

“I thought he called - "

“I’m not telling you a fucking thing, Moran. Leave it.”

You sigh and fold your hands behind your head. Glenson turns a page.

“So when he calls you, does he - "

Glenson flops his paper down with an irritated frown. “I said _leave it_. You’re not going to get anything from me.”

“But _why_?”

“Because he - ‘ Glenson breaks off, grits his teeth. It’s fascinating, part of the reason he’s such a good boss is his absolute calm, and you’ve never seen him this touchy before.

“Well?”

“Because the man fucking terrifies me, Moran. That’s why.” He takes his paper back and pretends to read.

“Come on,” you say, smiling. “He’s just a thug with really good PR. You’re not telling me you believe all that shit about - "

“Last time,” Glenson growls. “Drop it.”

You go through the motions of checking your Glock, frustrated. Glenson is the only person you know who’s had direct contact with Moriarty, and you’d been hoping you could get him to divulge more when you could talk in person. But he’s been back for a whole week now and yet he has shared _nothing._

All you know about Moriarty is the length of his fingers.

“Is he the one who sent you to Russia?”

He throws his paper down. “Right. Get out,” he says, sounding like a fucking primary school teacher.

You blink. “What?”

“You can’t keep your mouth fucking shut, you get out. Wait outside.”

You stand up and leave. It takes all your resolve not to slam the door like a pissed-off teenager. It’s not like Glenson to keep you in the dark, he always treats you like an equal, that’s why you've stuck around for this long.

You lean against the wall, bricks rough against your back, and your fingers go to your pocket almost without conscious thought, closing on the diamond cufflink like it’s a lucky charm. You've taken to carrying it around, partly to keep it safe – leave anything of value unguarded in your flat for one afternoon and it _will_ be stolen – but partly for some other reason. It's a reminder of... of something.

You can't explain it.

Because as much as you _want_ to believe what they say about Moriarty - the all-powerful criminal genius who laughs in the face of society - it’s all simply too bloody unrealistic. And you’ve always rejected the bullshit other people cling to. It can’t be real.

You take the diamond from your pocket and stare it.

But what if it is?

***

Glenson keeps silent, no matter how often you pry. Most of the time he tries to change the subject, or he ignores you, but one time he actually loses his shit and starts shouting at you, red-faced, veins standing out.

You stopped asking after that. Not out of fear, of course, but because anything that can get Glenson that fucking panicked isn’t something he’s going to talk about, no matter how persuasive you can be.

A loud squeal pulls you from your thoughts. Next door's couple is at it again, springs of the mattress squeaking rhythmically, the woman screaming like she's auditioning for hardcore porn. You close your eyes, let your imagination take over. You’ve seen the woman before and she’s pretty hot, bleached blonde and curvy, and her boyfriend’s not bad-looking either. But they’re not exactly the type to invite another bloke to the fun, unfortunately.

You could go out, find some fellow ex-soldier to suck you off, a sharp-eyed woman to fuck, but it feels like too much trouble, the whole tedious business of meaningful looks and flirty comments. There's always cottaging of course, no niceties required there, but for some reason that has never appealed to you much.

The phone starts ringing, barely audible above the racket from next door. You drop the diamond you've been spinning between your fingers on the bedside table and answer. “Yeah?”

“Moran?”

“Glenson?” He usually has a recognisable voice, but right now he sounds like a scared twelve-year old.

“Look, I... I've got a favour to ask you. I need someone – someone I can trust, someone who can... _Jesus.”_

Scrap twelve-year old, he sounds like someone five minutes from execution. “What do you need me to do,” you say, using the same voice you used for the rookie-speeches back when you were a sergeant. Not that you were ever particularly good at those: you can be many things, but _paternal_ isn't in your repertoire.

You hear him breathe shakily, once, twice, and then he says, 'I've got a meeting with Moriarty. In person.”

You glance at the cufflink. “What, now?”

“In a couple of hours. Look, he said I could bring one other person, and I need someone who won't panic, who won't do anything stupid.” He laughs shakily. “You're the coldest bastard I know, and the best shot, so.”

“So you want me to come along to hold your hand?”

“Basically, yeah,” he answers after a few seconds. “Look, Moran, you don't – you don't know what he's capable of.”

“Only ‘cause you refused to tell me.” And then you add, before he can start protesting, "It's fine, calm down, I'll be there. Where and when?”

You jot down the address, spout another few reassurances, and disconnect. You put on what you consider your work clothes – a cheap black suit, slightly too large so you can run around without being constricted – and arm yourself, Glock in your shoulder holster, knife strapped to your ankle.

 _You don't know what's he capable of_.

For the first time in a _very_ long time, you feel nervous.

***

The place they agreed on is near a railway siding, isolated enough not to attract casual bystanders. It's an eerie place, with several empty, broken-down carriages standing around which would make excellent cover. With a bit of luck it won't come to that, though. From what Glenson said, there is no real reason to suspect Moriarty is displeased enough to get out the guns.

On the other hand, Moriarty showing up in person is apparently rare enough that it’s cause for worry.

Glenson was silent the entire way here. When you started prying for details, he snapped and told you to pretend to be deaf during the entire meeting. Don't say a word, don't do anything rash, don't even look him in the eye, Christ, you'd think you're getting an audition with the Queen.

And anyway, been there, done that, got the fucking medal.

Once you're done exploring the area, you go back and lean against one of the carriages, watching Glenson pace. Up and down, up and down, all twitching mouth and wringing hands.

You slam your hand against the side of the carriage and Glenson jumps. “For fuck's sake,” you snap, "If he wanted you dead you'd be dead already, calm down.”

He laughs nervously. “Yeah, you haven't met him, have you?” He takes a deep breath and runs his hand over his face. “I'd like it better if he just shot me and got it over with.”

You peer a bit closer at Glenson's face and realise he's sweating, pale, as if he's about to be sick. Glenson, who double-crossed the Yakuza, who outsmarted the Mossad, who has stared down more gun barrels than even you ever did, is scared shitless. It's fucking unnerving.

The sound of tires on asphalt makes him jump. He takes up position, and you stand at his shoulder, arms relaxed by your side but reasonably close to your weapon, employing the thousand-yard stare of guards all over the world.

Moriarty. At last. Your heart is hammering like mad.

A black BMW pulls up and a bloke steps out. Big, burly and an ill-fitting suit makes him a bodyguard, the sort that's chosen because they look intimidating, not because of their intelligence. It's a bit of a disappointment, really.

The flunky opens the back door and Moriarty appears.

He's a tall man, thin, early fifties, with an expressionless, emaciated face. His eyes flick once to you and then he focuses on Glenson, dismissing you completely. Of course he does, you’re just the bodyguard, what did you expect? A quick wave, a fucking _wink_?

 _But he noticed you before_ , a voice in the back of your mind whispers. You ignore it.

Another guard gets out from the driver's seat and stands on Moriarty's other side, which means you're technically outnumbered. The two gorillas shouldn't be that much of a challenge, but Moriarty himself is a big question mark. He doesn't _seem_ like the type to carry a gun, but appearances can be deceiving.

He's a surprise, Moriarty. He looks too... normal. Not that you were expecting horns and a forked tongue or anything, but... He just doesn't _feel_ like Moriarty to you, which isn't exactly a rational way of looking at it. But hell, it isn’t rationality that has kept you alive all those years, and your gut is telling you this man is not nearly as great a threat as he thinks he is.

There's a fourth one, and you freeze, on your guard, but then the man catches his foot on the back seat and almost falls, and you relax again. People who trip over their own feet are rarely a serious threat. A _deliberate_ threat, anyway, 'cause all bets are off if a clumsy man gets his hands on a gun.

The new one takes in the scene in front of him and visibly shudders, and he's twitching even worse than Glenson was. He stays close to the car, trying to avoid catching anyone's eye, obviously wishing he was somewhere else. Secretary then, clerical type who does the bookkeeping and keeps away from the streets. The other three are ignoring him.

Glenson, meanwhile, has manfully managed to get a hold of himself. “Mr Moriarty,” he says, sounding almost calm.

You zone out and block out the conversation, like you were told, focusing instead on the body language of the others, ready to detect even the slightest move towards a weapon. It also leaves you free to think.

You expected to feel something, to feel threatened or impressed - the man is a fucking legend, after all - but there's nothing. Maybe the rumours really were all exaggerated. Or maybe your survival instinct has been shot to pieces, leaving you unable to recognise a threat when you see one.

Moriarty gestures to the short clerk, who until now has been doing his best to turn invisible. He jumps at the sudden movement and almost drops his briefcase again. Moriarty's face stays expressionless though, not showing any annoyance he must feel. Your eyes fall to his sleeves. Buttons, not cufflinks.

It's hard to imagine this man calling anyone _darling_.

The little clerk scoots forward with a file and puts it in Moriarty's hand. This brings him a bit closer into the light, and you automatically look him up and down again. Dark hair, pale skin, dark circles under his eyes, hands trembling. He looks at Glenson, wide-eyed and rodent-like, and darts back quickly. For just for a second, his eyes meet yours.

You blink, startled, and stare in amazement.

_Appearances can be deceiving._

Oh, but this is _beautiful_ , daring, a resounding _fuck you_ to whichever criminal who thinks he's smart enough to work out James Moriarty. Of course he wouldn’t reveal himself so easily. The master criminal, in control of everything, hidden in plain sight. It's perfect, and you almost laugh out loud.

“Pleasure doing business with you,” you hear, which means the meeting is over. Glenson turns to leave, but like _hell_ you’re going to let this opportunity pass.

“I'll stay here until you're at a safe distance, sir,” you say pointedly. This is met by raised eyebrows and a nervous shuffling.

“You distrust me, Glenson?” And once again you get that gut feeling of _wrong_ , but this time you know why. You hide another smile.

“Just a precaution,” you say pleasantly. Glenson shoots you a last nervous look and disappears. You wait a few minutes in silence. They're not paying much attention to you. You're not a player in this game, simply a weapon. And as long as they think that, you've got the advantage.

The _clerk_ peeks curiously at you from behind the bodyguard's back.

Once the sound of tires has disappeared they turn back to their car, again completely ignoring you. This is where you're expected to slink away in the shadows like the dog you are. But hey, you have a habit of subverting expectations.

“Mr Moriarty,” you call out.

The guards' hands inch towards their weapons, while the man turns around and gives you a level look. You bare your teeth at him. “No, I meant the real one,” you say, and everyone sort of freezes, the way your men used to do when they spotted a tripwire, waiting for the explosion.

You look at the short clerk at his side, who turns around slowly. He doesn't look deferential anymore. He's grinning now, showing sharp white teeth, a predator's smile. Gotcha.

The imposter doesn't realise the game is up, and tries to talk his way out. “Look,” he says, "I don't know what you imagine you're - " but you're not paying any attention to him, and the real man in charge rolls his eyes in annoyance and pushes the imposter roughly aside.

Would it have happened before, someone seeing through his little disguise? Or are you the first to spot the threads?

“Well?” the _real_ Moriarty snaps.

“Got something of yours.” You put your hand in your pocket and the two guards tense. You glance at them. They're looking confused. Poor sods won’t live another week, that’s for certain. Moriarty shakes his head and raises his hand, calling them off. Seems he trusts you not to start shooting, interesting.

You find the diamond cuff link and hold it up delicately. He holds out his hand, palm up, and snaps his fingers. You throw the tiny diamond in a high arch, and it lands neatly in the middle of his palm. You are a sniper after all, you know how to fucking _aim_.

Moriarty takes the diamond and looks at it with a smile. “Thought I lost that,” he says, and looks at you. That smile...

“Kill him,” he says.

You dive behind one of the empty carriages, but you're a fraction of a second too late and one of them manages to hit your leg. You keep rolling, getting you out of the main firing line, and give the wound a cursory look. Bleeding, but not too severely, and you think it missed the bone. All you can feel right now is a sort of numbness, but you've been in enough fights to know adrenaline only gets you so far.

You go as quiet as you can and wait. After a few minutes you can hear the fake ordering one of the bodyguards to check it out.

His footsteps are clearly audible in the gravel. Somebody is whistling, too far away to be the bodyguard. You close your eyes and breathe. It all comes down to timing - and not even that, really, when push comes to shove it’s just _luck_.

The footsteps hesitate and you take your chance, leaning around the corner and shooting before he even properly notices you. He goes down with a yell and there’s a second of confusion wherein you manage to get the other bodyguard as well, a neat shot through the chest.

You take cover again. Two down, so that just leaves the fake Moriarty. Who _is_ the type to carry a gun, it turns out, and also smart enough to take decent cover. You can hear him moving on the other side of the carriage, trying to creep up on you. Your leg is starting to go weak.

“Isn't this exciting!” Moriarty crows from a distance.

The footsteps pause in reaction and you make your move, kicking the rusty carriage with your good leg, hard enough to make the metal ring. The sound bounces off the other carriages, loud enough to be disorienting.

In moments like these time always seems to slow down. In slow motion you lean around the corner. Raising your arm and taking aim seems to last hours, but you're still the fastest and the other one is still reeling from the noise. You pull the trigger and hit him straight between the eyes. It's a one-shot kill.

Your leg buckles and you slide down onto the gravel, breathing heavily. Dangerous as it was, you've been here before, Afghanistan, Bosnia, Northern Ireland... It's practically routine. But if you're any judge, the most dangerous part is still to come.

A slow clapping noise signals Moriarty's position, only a few yards away. You still have enough bullets but shock is creeping up on you, the pain from your leg starting to break through the fog of adrenaline, vision going blurry around the edges. It’s not the ideal state to confront anyone in, let alone a supposed criminal genius.

Moriarty comes around the corner, still clapping, completely unconcerned. "That was fun,” he says, smiling like a kid that's just come down from a rollercoaster ride.

You raise your gun, arm shaking. Even weak as you are now, all it would take is a slight squeeze of your finger. He's unarmed, for god's sake. He's standing maybe a yard away. You can't miss.

He puts his hands in his pockets and looks down the barrel. His smile doesn't fade.

You drop your arm and put the gun back in your shoulder holster. He keeps his eyes on the gun until it's gone from sight, and only then does he look back at you.

“You killed my chauffeur,” he says, voice strangely high. He doesn't sound very upset about it.

“To be fair, you told him to kill me. It's textbook self-defence.” You feel your leg, and your fingers come away wet. You roll up your trousers and give the wound an experimental prod. Hurts, obviously, but no serious damage if you’re any judge.

When you look back up, he's staring at the blood at your fingers.

“So what are you waiting for now?” you ask.

“Hm?” He looks up from your hand to your face. “Oh, I don't particularly want you dead.” He pulls at the knot of his tie.

“You could have fooled me.”

He takes off his tie, gets a handkerchief from his pocket, and throws them both at you. It's far from ideal, nothing like the emergency bandages they trained you to use in the army, but it'll do the job. You press the handkerchief - clean, still smelling of washing powder - against the wound, and secure it with his tie. You can feel his eyes on you as you tie a knot just below your knee.

“Then why?” you say when you’re finished.

“If you couldn't even take out those three, what would be the point of you?”

He takes a step closer, effectively standing between your legs. He cocks his head and narrows his eyes. You're getting a crick in your neck, staring up like this, but you hold his gaze, refusing to look away.

“Get up,” he says softly. There's something strange about his accent. When he first opened his mouth you could have sworn he was American, but right now he sounds vaguely Irish.

You glance at your leg, then back at him. He raises his eyebrows expectantly. It's strange, if he were anyone else you'd tell them to fuck off, but...

You claw at the carriage and manage to pull yourself upright.

“You're not quite as stupid as the rest, are you, Moran?” He leans forward, like an encouraging school teacher, and for all that it's fucking _weird_ you can't help but be fascinated.

“No,” you say steadily, even though the pain in your leg is really starting to shout for your attention. “I'm not.”

“That, my dear, makes two of us,” he says, rocking back.

“Perfect partnership, then,” something makes you say. It's the same something that made you run after him the first time, that told you to keep his diamond close.

“Partnership?” he echoes, and this time it does sound dangerous.

“Why else would you let me live?”

“Angling for a job, are we?”

“You offering?”

He smiles briefly, and looks up at the air in thought. He's almost a head shorter than you. Funny, it doesn't feel like it.

"Well, I _suppose_ ,” he drawls, "that I do have one or two vacancies. If you're so eager.”

“Positively dying of anticipation.”

He looks back at you. For a moment, his gaze seems to sharpen somehow, as if he's only now giving you his full attention. You let him look his fill, not backing down.

“Well, in that case,” he says softly. You open your mouth to say something, anything, but the sound of sirens in the distance makes both your heads turn.

“Oh dear, someone went and called the cops,” he says. “Can't be helped, I suppose. And it'll mean your leg will be looked after.”

“From inside a prison cell, yeah.” Your knee buckles and you almost slide down again.

“Oh, you don't have to worry about the mess,” he says breezily, waving his hand at the three bodies. “I'll deal with that.”

“How kind of you.”

“Kind,” he snorts. “That's something I don't hear often.”

"Yeah?” You smirk, look at the dead bodies on the asphalt and back at his affable little smile. “Can’t imagine why.”

He winks at you and turns around, heading for his car. “I'll be in touch, Sebastian Moran.”

“You're not going to give me your number?” you say, grinning like a maniac.

“Don't push it,” he sings.

“Looking forward to working for you!” you shout after him. He raises a lazy hand in goodbye, not looking back.

You're still smirking when the ambulance arrives. The EMT's attribute it to shock. You don't bother to correct them.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **At Elephant, on the Aylesbury** : The Aylesbury estate, built in the 60's, is a housing estate with one of the worst reputations in London/the UK. The Daily Mail famously described it as "hell's waiting room". Which, given that it's the Daily Mail, is probably exaggerated, but it's still very different from Belgravia.


	2. Consulting Criminal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which Seb's New Boss Is a Shape-Shifting Stalker With a Strange Sense of Humour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for discussion of sexism, classism, and racism; discussion of terrorism (reference to the 07/07 bombings); implied torture; minor character death; sadism

**2\. Consulting Criminal**

_I see you've found my underground_   
_Help yourself to guns and ammo_   
_Nothing here has ever seen the light of day_   
_I leave it in my head_   
_(Timo Maas feat. Brian Molko – First Day)_

Another of the rumours turns out to be true: Moriarty is a man of his word. You don't get a single visit from the police while you're in the hospital, even though they saw all the other bodies, even though they found your _gun_. But they just put it in a bag with your clothing and shoes and hand it back after you’re discharged, as if it’s nothing more harmful than a lighter. There are no news reports of a shooting either, no inquiry, nothing. If it wasn't for your leg you would start to think you'd imagined it all.

When you get back from the hospital there’s a thick brown envelope waiting for you on the floor near the door. Seems the job offer wasn’t a fever-induced daydream after all.

You put it on the table and take your phone. The battery of your phone went dead while you were in hospital, and when you plug it in and turn it back on you have five missed calls from Glenson. He's not the type to worry easily, but you can see where this is coming from.

You call him back, and he answers almost immediately, sounding angry in a way you haven't heard before.

“What. The _fuck_. Happened?”

“I was offered a new job," you say lightly. “Do you mind if I resign?”

“What job, what the _fuck_ are you talking about?”

“After you left, I had a chat with your boss. Turns out he had a job vacancy.”

“Moriarty? _Moriarty_ offered you a job?”

“I had to nag a bit first, but yeah, he did.”

You can hear him breathing down the phone. “So you believe the rumours now, do you?" he asks, a little weakly.

You open your mouth to deny, and stop, remembering that pleasant little smile, the way he was whistling cheerfully during the gunfight. “Yeah, I sort of do.”

“Okay. You - shit. _Fuck_. You work for Moriarty now.”

You grin. "That’s the gist of it, yeah. I would tell you more, but then I'd probably end up floating in the Thames with a few of my body parts missing.”

“You could try not to sound so fucking _delighted_ about it. Jesus Christ, Moran, have you gone mental?”

And that's the question, isn't it? There's no rational reason to be happy about this, but you are.

“Look," you say patiently. “I'm a big boy, I know what I'm doing.”

“You know he's insane? And dangerous? And that you're likely to end up in the fucking river by next week even if you don't tell anyone anything?”

You hum in agreement. He’s entirely right, but still you don’t feel anything like fear. Death never particularly scared you, anyway.

“Only a month ago you were trying to convince me he was just an ordinary criminal who liked making up stories,” he says.

“Yeah, well, I was wrong, wasn't I?” you say, running a hand through your hair. After all, Moriarty didn't just exceed your expectations, he _obliterated_ them. There's literally nothing ordinary about him.

He sighs. “You know what? I’m going to miss you, you smart-arsed sick cunt. You were one of the best I’ve seen, and I’ve seen a lot.”

“I’m touched,” you say dryly.

He snorts. “Arsehole. Anyway, good luck. You'll need it.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

He laughs. “No, trust me, son, you do. Although,” he trails off, sounding almost thoughtful. “Well, ten to one you’ll end up dead anyway. But...”

“What?”

“If anyone can pull this off, it’s you,” he says, sounding oddly sincere.

“Thanks,” you say, and end the call.

You’d never have expected the old bastard to get mushy. But to be completely honest, you’re going to miss him too. He was the first man you’ve served under who actually _listened_ to what you had to say. But still, he never really understood you, why you are doing this, why you aren’t with your family, doing some cushy job and living in a fancy flat.

And when you remember the amused glint in Moriarty’s eyes, you think he just might. Understand you.

Or maybe not. Christ, Glenson’s not the only one who’s getting sentimental. You take the envelope and tear it open. Inside is a sketched map, several pages of what looks like legal documents, and a fancy engraved lighter. One page is a set of hand-written instructions. On it is a bright pink post-it note, saying _think you can handle it, darling?_

Only one way to find out.

***

You can say what you want about London, the parks are bloody gorgeous. Especially when the flowers are blooming and the birds are singing and the whole thing looks like a Monet come to life.

A pigeon hops closer and pecks at your shoe. Once it has realised that quality Italian leather does not make a tasty morsel, it hops away again. A young man sits down on the bench opposite of you and starts throwing chunks of bread. You sprawl back and smirk at him, and he quickly looks back down at his birds, blushing all the way to his ears. Adorable.

Someone sits down next to you, carrying a newspaper, and it’s such a spy movie cliché you have trouble keeping a straight face. The man – forties, with a bland unmemorable face – puts a cigarette between his lips and pats his pockets. “Excuse me, do you have a light?" he asks politely. He has a strange accent that’s difficult to place, Eastern European maybe.

You light his cigarette with the lighter that came in the post, making sure to display the engraving. At least there are no coded phrases.

 _The eagle has landed. The significant owl hoots in the night._ God, you would have cracked up.

He nods his thanks, takes a few drags, and then he stands up and leaves, leaving his paper behind. You look around casually. The boy opposite has walked on, and no one else is paying much attention to you. You take the paper. Stuffed inside is another dark brown envelope.

It’s tempting to look inside, but you’re not _that_ reckless. The paper goes under your arm together with the other envelope and you head to the bank, whistling. By the time you get there you're limping. Apparently you got lucky again, bullet missing the bone, nothing more than a deep graze. But it's still a _bullet_ , one solid inch of searing-hot metal destruction, of course it fucking _hurts_

The bank is one of the big ones, all marble and spotless floors and people in suits. It’s a good thing the instructions included dress code (business wear, NO JEANS underlined three times). You head to one of the counters, and lean gratefully on the gleaming surface. The receptionist gives you a professional smile. Pretty, South Asian, dark hair pulled back tight, and she’s got that razor-sharp professional look you like seeing in women.

“Morning,” you glance at her name tag, turn up the charm, “Priyamveda.”

Her smile becomes a little more genuine. Not hard to guess why, the kind of people that come here would likely treat her like furniture.

“Morning, sir. How may I help you?”

“I’m here for a safe,” you say.

“Well, I should be able to help you with that,” she says with glittering eyes.

You grin and slide the documents over the counter. She flips it open, runs a perfectly manicured finger over the first page, and turns to her computer screen.

“Do you know you’re one of the first clients here who can pronounce my name?’ she says. “Most just say Priya, if they bother to say anything at all, that is.”

“I was born in Madras,” you say.

She looks up, interested. “Chennai, you mean.”

“It was still Madras when I was born.”

She rolls her eyes, but she’s still smiling, her cheeks dimpling. “You’ve got an answer for everything, haven't you?”

“Is that a polite way of calling me a smartarse?”

She doesn’t reply. The smile has suddenly disappeared and she’s staring at the screen with wide, surprised eyes. She looks at the documents, back at the screen, and then she throws one frightened look at you.

Interesting. You read those pages several times, but they still stayed gibberish to you – you don’t speak legalese.

“I see,” she says, back to impersonal professionalism. “The safe’s right this way, please, sir.” She steps from behind the counter and you follow her, still limping.

“Must get boring, doing this all day,” you say, trying to make conversation.

“I don’t mind, sir,” is all you get in reply. Whatever it was she saw, it’s got her scared enough not to risk talking to you. You look around. The few people present are all politely ignoring you. In fact, the only thing that seems to pay you any attention is a security camera, turning as if it’s following you.

The girl leads you to a large room filled with safes. “Policy is to lock you inside, sir,” she says, looking at your right ear. “Just ring the bell when you’re done.”

You nod at her and she leaves. She didn’t look you in the eye once.

To business. You find the right safe and push in the code. It unlocks with a little puff of expelled air.

It seems a bit too simple, all of this. No armed men jumping out from behind the potted plants, no bank directors pulling out a knife and pouncing when your back is turned, not even the man in the park was a threat.

You look back at the little safe. Just to be cautious you take a large step to the left, standing away from the opening. Only then do you open the door fully.

Nothing happens. You peek inside. The safe is empty, no poisonous snakes, no booby traps. It’s almost disappointing. You put the folder inside and close it again.

Simple as that.

You shake your head and ring the bell. The girl unlocks the door and waits patiently, hands folded. “Is everything alright, sir?" she asks when she sees your frown.

“Yes, everything’s fine.” You look at her and she winces, small but noticeable. “I don’t suppose you can tell me what was on those papers I gave you?’ you ask carefully.

Her face goes blank. “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to discuss that, sir.”

“Right, obviously you’re not. Thanks anyway.”

She leads you to the exit, and you’re sure you can hear her breathe in relief when you’re outside. Terrified of you, just because of something she saw on a screen. Moriarty? Does he have a reputation in the legal world as well? Although the line between legal and illegal is pretty vague in the higher regions of banking, of course.

Your phone beeps, interrupting your thoughts. It’s an automated message from your own bank, and you open it absently. Just a random administrative -

You stop abruptly, making someone behind bump into you. You check the numbers, once, twice, making absolutely sure you didn’t misread a comma as a point or something.

It’s not like you were poor, exactly, but that’s... that’s a lot of money. Especially for something as simple as this.

Your phone beeps again, a proper message this time, number withheld.

_Up for another one? ;)_

You give a snort of laughter and a few people give you odd looks. You send back, _yes_ , because really, like you were ever going to say no to him.

***

Not all the jobs are as boring as the first one, thankfully. Some of them are like the work you used to do, break-ins and robberies, only they’re much better organized. Others are something completely new. You’re sent out to negotiate a lot, discussing payment and price with men full of their own importance. You’re good at that: they always try to intimidate you but you’ve dealt with pompous arses for half of your life and their tricks don’t work on you.

And even though the nature of the jobs themselves varies incredibly, they always follow a strict pattern. About a week before the job is actually supposed to take place an unmarked envelope appears in your mailbox, filled with all the necessary information. Afterwards you put whatever it is you had to steal or collect or trade in a safe in a bank. He never uses the same bank twice.

Almost immediately after you deliver, the money appears on your bank account. You’re still not used to how much he pays you.

Sometimes you work alone, sometimes there's one or two others, and one time you are put in charge of about a dozen men.

You never see Moriarty.

***

“If it isn't the clever boy!”

Sophia is leaning against a lamppost, hair a little longer than last time you saw her but that cocky smirk is still the same.

You blink in surprise. “I'm flattered you remember me, Miss Kratides.”

“Memory like a steel trap. You can stop gawping,” she continues. “Didn’t he tell you I’d be here?”

“No, all I knew was there would be _someone else_. Didn’t specify. Not that I mind,” you add with a leer.

She rolls her eyes. “Haven’t changed, have you? Although you must have. Not doubting anymore, eh?”

“I have become a devoted believer," you say solemnly. Not entirely true, you still don’t believe he can shoot lightning from his eyes or that he drinks blood to keep him young or anything else of the more outlandish rubbish, but, well. He’s _good_ , Moriarty. Damn near perfect when it comes to planning crimes.

“Told you so," she says smugly. “Anyway, you gonna tell me why we're here?”

“He didn't tell you?" you ask, surprised. He obviously likes dividing the information. Makes sense, in a way.

She shrugs. “ _Do whatever the pretty boy tells you_ , that's what I was told.” She smiles lazily. “I'm assuming he means you.”

“Any problem with that?”

“The _pretty boy_ or the _do as I'm told_?”

“Both.”

She laughs, a short unladylike bark of a laugh. “Moriarty knows what he's doing, and if he tells me to listen to you, that means you know what you're doing as well. So, why are we here?" She looks up at the back of the large manor house that's tonight's target.

“Documents. Don't ask me what they are, I don't know - "

“Wasn't going to.”

“- but there are two copies, a safe in each wing of the house. Security will be down twenty minutes from the moment I call in. You take the east wing, it's a relatively easy room to get to but the safe isn't easy.”

“Won't be a problem.”

You look up from your written instructions. “Very _sure_ of yourself, aren't you?”

She grins, her white teeth clearly visible in the dark.

“Anyway, here are the plans for the house." You hand her the papers. "I hope that memory of yours is as good as you say, 'cause you won't have the time to get lost.”

“And you?" she asks, looking through the plans.

“North wing. Easier safe but the way there is practically an obstacle course.”

“I hope you're in shape.”

You look up at her from under your brows. “I _am,_ thanks for the concern. Are you ready?”

She gives the plans one last look and nods. You type your text and put in the earpieces of the iPod that came with the instructions. Sophia raises her eyebrows.

“Don't ask. Three, two, one...”

You send the message. Two seconds later the light on the security camera goes off, and Kylie Minogue starts singing.

***

Once you get over the ridiculousness it's actually a pretty good idea, using music to synchronise something as complicated as this. The cameras and alarms all have different timers, and keeping an inner countdown can get pretty tiring after a while. But it's easy to remember to start running when Kylie hits the high C.

Currently you're hanging from a rope on the outside of the house with the theme tune from Mission Impossible blaring in your ears. That's one thing you can say about Moriarty: he definitely has a sense of humour.

You count out four beats and swing through the open window. Once inside, all you have to do is break into the desk. It shouldn't be the hard, the envelope included a set of lockpicks and a practice lock - he doesn’t leave anything to chance, Moriarty. And sure enough, the safe opens after the second attempt. You stuff the papers inside your jumper, switch to the next song, and make your way out again.

Sophia is already waiting by the fence. You drop down lightly next to her and pull out the earplugs. The volume is still high enough to make it audible in the quiet of the night.

\- _and I am a material girl -_

You switch it off, grimacing. When you look up Sophia is looking at you, eyebrows raised, fighting and failing to suppress a grin.

“Our mutual boss has a very strange taste in music,” you say by way of an explanation.

“Moriarty makes you listen to Madonna while you’re breaking in? He really is a bastard.”

“Tell me about it. Have you got them?”

She pulls up her jumper- you see a flash of rounded stomach and hip - and gets out a sheaf of papers with a triumphant flourish. “It were easy, really.”

You take the papers and put them in the bag. “Job well done, I’d say. You’re heading home?”

“Actually, want to go get a drink?" she asks, bouncing on her heels. “I'm feeling wired.”

You swing the bag over your shoulder and give her a look. “And here I was thinking you didn't like me.”

“Dunno, you seem like less of a prick than last time.” She smirks. “And Moriarty weren’t lying about the _pretty_.”

“I'm starting to feel objectified," you say dryly. She slaps your arse and walks off. The security camera turns back on, right on time.

A rustle from the woods catches your attention. A barely visible shape disappears just as you turn. It could be an animal, but with a bit of bad luck it's a guard.

“You coming?" Sophia calls softly. The woods stay silent.

“Yeah, sorry," you say, and jog to catch up with her. It takes until you reach the main road before you lose the feeling of eyes watching you.

***

You wade your way through the crowd in the pub to where Sophia is sitting and clunk her glass down in front of her.

“And a Guinness for the lady. Are you making some kind of point here?”

She gives you another of those unimpressed looks she's so good at. “What, 'cause I'm a woman I can only drink white wine and fucking Cosmopolitans?”

“Just saying I won't think any less of you for drinking something lighter.”

“I _like_ Guinness.”

You shrug and take a gulp from your beer. When you put it down Sophia is looking at you, eyes narrowed. “What?" you say defensively.

“You think that's what I'm doing? Pretending to be one of the blokes?”

“Aren't you?”

She scoffs. “I wouldn't expect you to understand.”

“Cause I'm one of the blokes?”

“Course.” And when she sees your dubious look, she adds, “Aw, you telling me _you_ are feeling left out?”

You shrug. “I've got the wrong background. Oh, fine, they'll play along ‘cause I know how to handle a gun and how to break a man's arm, but they don't _like_ me. I'm an outsider.”

“To being outsiders, then,” she says, raising her glass in a toast.

You grin and clink your glass against hers. She takes a large gulp of her drink and you almost choke trying to keep up with her.

“See, that's what I don't understand," she says while you're still coughing. She seems more relaxed than before, less prickly. Still attractive, though. “Why you're doing this. You must've got money, yeah?”

There you go again. You’ve heard this question more times than you can count, and you’re thoroughly sick of it. “I don't,” you say curtly. “My family does, but I'm not going to go to _them_.”

“Don't like your family?”

“Don't like the whole lot of them. Upper classes, I mean," you add when she raises her eyebrows.

“Hate to break it to you, love, but you're one of them.”

“I didn't choose that, did I?”

She snorts with laughter. “Did you _really_ just say that?”

“Yeah, I can't complain, I fucking _know_." You shake off your irritation and give her a smile. "Anyway, what about you?”

“What about me?" she says lazily.

“Where are you from?”

“The North.” She grins again. “All over the place, really. Born in Leeds, but we moved around a lot. And me dad’s Greek, if you were actually being racist.”

You shake your head. “Couldn't care less about that, love. Although... Did your dad teach you Greek or something? Because I did wonder about the Homer on your back.”

“Yeah, my accent and knowing Ancient Greek, doesn’t add up in your world, does it?” she says, mocking.

“I told you, it isn’t _my world_ anymore.”

She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, right. But yeah, he did. He was pretty big on the whole Glorious Ancestry thing.”

“And you’re not?”

She shrugs. "I'm more interested in what's happening _now_ than what some bloke said to some other bloke three thousand years ago."

"Depends on the bloke, I suppose."

She narrows her eyes at you and leans back a little. For a while there’s nothing but the laughter and chatter from the other patrons, the clink of glasses, the music. You look idly around the pub, giving Sophia the opportunity to study you without this turning into a staring contest.

“I can’t work you out, you know,” she says at last. “When I first saw you I thought you were just another posturing sexist arsehole who was trying to get in my knickers, but...”

“We-ell...” You leer at her. She snorts and kicks you underneath the table.

“Don’t spoil it now, clever boy.”

“Sorry,” you say, grinning. “And what do you think now?”

“Dunno. You don’t _fit._ ”

"I'll take that as a compliment," you say with a smile. She doesn't reply so you look around the room again, start studying the other people. Sophia has been sending mixed signals to say the least, and you could really use a good fuck to dispel the tension of the break-in. It doesn't hurt looking for second choices.

“They say you’ve met him," she says suddenly.

“Who?" you ask, still casing the room.

“Moriarty.”

You look back at her. “Just the once. You haven't?”

“Not in person. What's he like?”

You try to think of appropriate words to describe him and come up mostly blank. “Weird," is the closest you come.

Sophia cackles. “That satisfied my curiosity. But maybe I'm better off not knowing. Some of the things they say about him...”

“Mostly rubbish, if you ask me.” You cross your arms and lean forward. Might as well try. “Look, why don't you and I - "

“No.”

“No?”

“No," she repeats decisively.

You shrug and lean back again. “Fair enough.”

“That's it?" She blinks in surprise.

“What, do you _want_ me to push?”

“God no, but you wouldn't be the first bloke I'd had to knee in the bollocks ‘cause he couldn't take no for an answer.” She grins. “Proper gentleman, you are. Anyway, don't take it personally, I never mix business with pleasure.”

For some reason you're reminded of Moriarty, standing between your legs, looking down at you. You shake your head, trying to dislodge the memory. “Might be good advice, that.”

“And if you're looking for a quick shag, the barmaid had her eye on you from the moment we came in.”

You choke on your beer in laughter.

“Just trying to be helpful,' Sophia says innocently.

You eye the barmaid. Blonde, chirpy and cheerful. “Thanks, but she's not really my type.” Your eyes drift to the other end of the bar, at a group of young, loud women, probably out on a hen night or something. One of them, dark hair and lips painted fire hydrant red, is looking in your direction. She smiles lazily when she sees you watching. That's more like it.

You look back at Sophia. “Then you won’t mind if I bugger off and try to chat up someone else?”

She laughs. “You're a right piece of work, aren't you? But you’re straightforward, I’ll give you that. So yeah, go ahead, I'm going home.” She stands up and looks down at you. “Try not to get killed, eh? It's nice working with someone who looks at my face instead of my tits.”

“You're not exactly making that easy right now," you say, face level with her breasts.

She gives another snort of laughter. “Go leer at someone who appreciates it, you twat.”

You watch her leave, drinking down the last of your beer. Once she's gone you make your way to the bar and lean against it, close to the woman. You turn slightly and try to meet her eye. She doesn't play coy, though.

“Go on, then, amaze me," she sneers, accent clear-cut like glass.

“Pardon?”

“The wonderfully original pick-up line you were thinking of while you were perving at me.”

“I was going to go with _hi_ , but now that sort of feels inadequate.”

She chuckles and you wave over the bartender. “Another?”

Still grinning, she nods. “What the hell.”

She's not Sophia. Classier but less honest, prettier but not nearly as much guts. But it's just for tonight, so she'll do.

You give her your best toothpaste-ad smile and say, “You come here often?' She laughs and her hand brushes your arm, and unless you're really mistaken, you'd say you've pulled.

***

A couple of hours later you stumble out of a hotel downtown with scratches on your back and a love bite in your neck and all traces of the adrenaline buzz of earlier completely eradicated.

You zip up your jeans and start looking for a cab, when something catches your eye again. You spin around and almost lose your balance – too much alcohol, that damn woman drank vodka like it was lemonade – but there's nothing. Just a fox or a cat.

But even when you step into a taxi a few streets further you can't shake the feeling you're being watched.

You chalk it up to paranoia.

***

 _Dress nice_ , this week's post-it note said. _Make your parents proud_.

You understand why when the driver he sent you pulls up in front of a restaurant. It's the kind of place that makes the Ritz look like Burger King, where just the starters cost an average man's month's wage. It's meant to be intimidating, but you were born and bred in in a world even more elitist than this one, among people who would dismiss this place with one derisive whisper of _nouveau riche_.

The maître d' gives you a snooty look that says you've passed, but only barely, despite the fact that you're wearing a thousand-pound suit and a matching watch. Not that surprising, for some reason the personnel in these kind of places is often even more snobbish than the patrons. You react to his upturned nose with a flirtatious smile and a wink, and he blinks, startled out of his superiority. Nothing funnier than the panic in a straight boy’s eyes when he realises you’re coming on to him.

He leads you to the back of the restaurant. You try to sneak the odd look at the other patrons. Businessmen, the lot of them, whether legal or not. The few women there are fall into two categories: the elegant, slightly older career women and the eye-candy. The tables are set far apart for privacy; no eavesdropping possible. Even the live piano player is separated from the tables by a fair few yards and an elevated platform.

The men you're supposed to meet are already there, looking at you with ill-disguised hostility. “Gentlemen," you say politely as you sit down. They glare at you.

Your instructions were as sparse as always. You've been given the parameters: _this is the lowest offer you can accept, this is the ideal amount_ , and now you have to negotiate, even if you don't have clue what it is you're bartering over.

“You’re sure we’re not being watched?" one asks, surly.

“Yes, I’m sure,” you say calmly. “Your reputation’s safe here, don’t worry.”

He pulls a face. They’re far too uncomfortable, ill at ease, haven’t done this before. Must be government. Although that rather begs the question what they’re doing making deals with a notorious criminal. Did they lose something and now want it back discreetly? It seems like the sort of thing Moriarty would take on. Or maybe it’s just plain old espionage.

Either way, it’s boring. You try to suppress your instinctive dislike, but it's tiring work, dancing around their sensitivities while still getting the result you need. You lean back and order a whisky, and the pianist launches into an annoyingly familiar tune. The men are whispering to each other, giving you time to search for the name of the song. It sounds a bit like Brad Mehldau or Dave Brubeck, except it’s off, like there’s something missing. A singer, maybe? You concentrate on the melody, and the words pop up in your head.

_\- You’re in the mood for a dance, and when you get the chance -_

It’s a jazzed-up version of fucking _Dancing Queen_.

You crane your head with a growing feeling of suspicion, trying to get a look at the pianist. All you can see from this angle is dark hair, slicked back.

“Excuse me," you say, getting up from the table. It gives them time to argue without you watching their every expression, and it gives you the opportunity to go and take a look at the mystery pianist.

You head for the toilets, making a detour past two small tables and turning around casually a few feet away from the piano.

It's Moriarty.

Of course it's Moriarty, why wouldn't he want to keep an eye on his business, the way he did when you first met him. But how the hell did you miss this? He's sitting right there, in the middle of the room for everyone to see, but for some reason he simply fades into the background. Dismissed as unimportant from the moment you entered the restaurant, of no more significance than the cutlery or the wallpaper.

“Is everything alright, monsieur?" one of the waiters asks as he passes you.

You've been staring. “Yes, of course, sorry. I was distracted for a moment.”

The waiter gives you a dubious look but leaves you alone. You glance back at Moriarty. For a split second, he meets your eyes. He winks at you, so quickly you're not entirely sure if you haven't imagined it, but before anyone can notice anything off, he's looking back at the keys.

When you get back from the bathroom the men are looking expectantly at you. You sit down and one of them slides a napkin to you. “Our final offer,” he says, a little muscle twitching in his jaw.

You fold it open. It’s well above the lower margins you’ve been given. You look up at them. They’re still staring anxiously, and you take your time, folding the napkin again, taking a sip from your whiskey, until they seem ready to burst with tension. Only then do you say, “It’ll do.”

“Thank _God_ ,” the other one mutters. They stand up and leave as quickly as they can.

You lean your glass against your chin and watch them leave. Close to panic, they were, and you’d bet anything that tonight was about fixing someone’s little fuck-up. A drunk civil servant, forgetting his briefcase in the loo, or some politician who tried to impress a girl and accidentally let slip a little too much, something like that.

You snort and stand up. And look back at the glossy grand piano and the discreet little man sitting behind it. Not one of the patrons would think to look at the staff twice. It is, once again, the perfect disguise.

He doesn’t look up again and you leave with a growing sense of unease. It’s ridiculous that it’s taken you so long to put it all together. The first time you saw him he was spying on you, the first time you actually met him too, so why the hell did you assume those were exceptions rather than the rule?

But how many times before has Moriarty been present, watching, without you noticing?

***

It almost becomes a hobby after that. Moriarty-spotting. Most of the time it's security cameras, turning to follow you when you walk past, but you see him in person occasionally. As a waiter, a casual bystander, or you spot the glint of binoculars from somewhere up high.

Of course you're careful not to give him away to anyone else, but when it's just you, you can't resist the occasional wave.

One time he even waves back.

***

“...week since the suicide attacks on the London public transport. The death toll has risen to fifty-two, with over seven hundred people injured," the newsreader announces on the radio, voice appropriately solemn. “The police is still - " You switch it off.

Your first habitual reaction, developed in the army, is _fucking terrorists_ , but your second reaction is to wonder if this is one of Moriarty’s. He's got a reputation of liking explosions. Hell, maybe that’s even why you’re here today.

You glance at the man in the back seat. He didn't put up much of a fight, and he doesn't look like someone important, but you never know.

“You haven’t got anything to do with that, have you?" you ask. “Been blowing up buses?”

He mumbles something unintelligible from underneath his hood.

“Yeah, never mind.”

There are things that get on the news sometimes, and it gives you a wicked little thrill to see your scene of crime displayed on screen. But it doesn’t happen nearly as often as you’d might think, most of Moriarty’s business is completely hidden. Working from the shadows, unseen, that seems to be his style.

You pull up in front of one of those half-finished building projects London is full of and pull your prisoner out of the car by the scruff of his neck. There's a bog standard lackey waiting next to the entrance, smoking.

“Special delivery," you say, giving your prisoner a little shake. “Where do you want him?”

The bloke looks you slowly up and down. He flicks the butt of his cigarette away and crosses his arms. “Boss says you've got to take him in," he says at last.

“Me?" You raise your eyebrows. Your instructions stopped at getting the man here, and it's the first time something has deviated from the plan.

“Yeah, you. And I wouldn't keep the boss waiting if I was you," he adds with an evil grin.

You flip him the finger with your free hand and go inside, pulling your prisoner along. Down the hallway is another flunky who directs you to one of the unfinished offices in the back.

The boss. You can't think who it is. Not Moriarty himself, of course, but the idea of someone else ordering you around kind of stings. He could've bloody mentioned something.

There's a murmur of several voices behind the room, which stops immediately when you knock. The door is opened by yet another heavily-built man in a dark nondescript suit. That makes three, all armed, covering all exits. Apart from said flunky there's one man pacing nervously on one side of the room and a square-jawed woman glaring at the man you've just pushed inside.

And, contrary to your expectations, Moriarty himself, wearing a dark overcoat and leather gloves, leaning against a trestle table.

“See? I _told_ you he'd be here, didn't I?" he says. He sounds northern this time, very unlike the American accent you heard last time. “And next time you doubt me, I won't be this forgiving.”

Those last words are addressed to the woman, but you feel a shiver down your spine all the same at the implied threat. What is about the man that makes you so -

So _responsive_?

He clicks his fingers and you push your captive roughly ahead of you, pulling off his hood. You kick at the back of his legs and the bloke goes down, landing hard on his knees. He looks around, disoriented, but when he sees Moriarty he goes rigid with fear.

Moriarty reaches out with one leather-clad hand and grips his chin, hard. He leans in close and whispers something. You can't hear the words but you can see the bloke going very pale, can feel him starting to tremble. Moriarty lets him go with a vicious shake, and something about the pose, the arrogance, the _control_ of the man triggers something deep inside you. Throat suddenly dry, you swallow.

And even though you haven't made a noise – you're sure of that, you've been on enough stake-outs to know how to stay quiet no matter what – Moriarty looks up sharply.

You don't look away, despite that being obviously the safest option, but being around Moriarty messes with your survival instincts. And as you watch, a slow smile grows on his face, a smile that makes your knees go weak. Much like the first time you met him, his focus seems sharper, as if he's sifting through the pieces of you, looking for something that catches his interest. You're this close to falling to your knees yourself.

“Are you two done?”

Moriarty looks up sharply at the woman and she takes a startled step backwards. She raises her hands. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to...”

But the moment’s broken anyway. You step back a little, folding your hands behind your back, awaiting instructions.

Moriarty makes a swift gesture at you. “Wait outside,” he says, and you nod and leave. When you’re at the door, you look back briefly. The woman has started a feverish whispered discussion with Moriarty, who looks more _bored_ than anything else. He’s not paying any attention to you.

Once outside, you lean back against the wall next to the door and close your eyes, counting your breaths. Jesus, all he did was fucking _smile_ at you and already you’re floored.

There’s a loud scream from behind the door, abruptly cut off.

You fumble for your cigarettes and light one with shaking fingers. You’re more stressed than last week, when you had to break into a military base and some idiot set off the alarm in the middle of the job. But that was just _work_ , and this is -

Well. Also work, but it feels like something else. More personal.

There’s another wail from the other room, and the unmistakable sounds of breaking bones.

So why is Moriarty here in person? Is he pretending to be someone else again? Or is he, for once, just himself? Maybe the accent is his own, maybe this is who he is when he drops all the masks and disguises.

You blow out a stream of smoke. Unlikely. You’re not quite sure why, but you don’t really believe that.

The door slams open and the woman strides out, expression grim. The other man half-runs after her, looking a little wild around the eyes. They both ignore you.

Before the door falls back closed completely the guard comes out as well, blood splattered across his shirt. He looks a little spooked, but as soon as he spots you he pulls his shoulders back and glowers.

“Think you’re so tough because you can beat a man in chains to a pulp, do you?" you say, smiling slightly.

“At least I wasn’t sent out like a - a fucking _preschooler_.”

Problem is, he’s got a point. Why did Moriarty send you out, what didn’t he want you to see? Still, can’t let shit-for-brains see he has hit a nerve. “Go on then, off you pop,” you say, leering, “The boss isn’t paying you to loiter, is he?”

He winces. “Wanker.”

“Fuckwit.”

He stomps off, still frowning, and you watch him leave with an amused grin. Honestly, that lot is so full of their own self-importance that -

The door opens again and Moriarty comes out. Your grin promptly fades. He holds out his gloved hand without looking at you, and you tap out another cigarette, light it, and hand it over. He takes a drag, still staring into the distance.

It’s the first time you really see him up close, last time you were too high on adrenaline and pain to really notice. He’s pale, dark circles under his eyes, hair a little messy, three days’ worth of stubble. Ordinary, unnoticeable, and that more than anything convinces you it’s just another disguise.

“You’ve got a shit taste in music,” you say after a while.

He smiles and drops his cigarette, grinding it out beneath his shoe. “Get him back home, will you?" he asks, accent still firmly up north.

“He’s still alive, then?”

He looks up at you from beneath his brows. Doesn’t say anything, just _stares_. He doesn’t blink often enough.

“I’ll, erm.” You swallow. “I’ll go get him then, shall I?”

Moriarty shakes his head in - exasperation? amusement? - and walks off, hands behind his back.

You go back into the room and drag the man up. “Come on, you, we’re going back,” you say when he looks blearily at you. He’s in a right state, two teeth knocked out, nose broken, arm in an odd unnatural position that means it’s broken as well, or at least dislocated. You pick up the teeth from the floor and put them in his pocket. “Get to A&E or your dentist as soon as possible, with any luck they’ll be able to reimplant them.”

He stares at you in disbelief.

“Cheer up,” you say, picking the hood back up and dusting it off. “Consider yourself lucky. You’re still alive, aren’t you? I mean, this could’ve just as well ended in me dumping your body somewhere.”

He gurgles and spits a mouthful of blood on the floor. You put the hood back over his head and fasten it. “Off we go then,” you say. You take the back of his neck and pull him along, down the corridor and back to the front door, where armed guy number one is still patiently standing guard.

Just as you step outside a black Audi tears off, and you can just see the back of a dark-haired head in the back seat.

***

Moriarty is...

He’s good at what he does. He’s thorough, he foresees everything, he doesn’t make mistakes. He’s got a twisted sense of humor and a predator's smile and, as you’ve said to the man himself, a shit taste in music.

He’s ruthless, brutally efficient, terrifying. He doesn’t choose sides, you reckon you’ve worked about as often for the government as against it. He’s versatile, adaptable, nothing is too much for him.

He’s got eyes that can see straight into a man’s soul.

You laugh in the darkness of your flat. He’s also got the power to turn pragmatic bastards into soppy poets, it seems.

Still, there’s something about him that defies description. You’ve only seen him up close two times, but those were... It’s like all else fades when he’s there, like he’s drawing in all the light and energy.

You shake your head. Poetics, again.

Thing is, you think about him. A lot. Calling you _obsessed_ wouldn’t be that far off the mark, if you’re honest. He doesn’t even leave you alone when you’re asleep. Instead of the vivid bloodsoaked battle nightmares you’ve been having on-and-off for the last few years, you now dream of him, strange, half-remembered dreams that leave you disoriented and uncomfortable, and occasionally more than just uncomfortable. Even now, when you start thinking about his eyes and his hands in those gloves and his damn _smile_ , you can feel your cock starting to stir.

You don’t think anyone has ever had quite the effect on you Moriarty has.

But he’s just a man. Smart, cunning, dangerous, but only human. Nothing to get all flustered about. Just a man.

You throw the blankets back, hoping the shock of cold air might be enough to subdue your lust. It’s October and the heating is broken again, and yesterday the taps had frozen solid. It’s fucking freezing in here.

You glare at your crotch. It doesn’t seem to work. Having a high sex drive is something you usually consider a good thing, but this is getting annoying. You drop your head back to the pillows and close your eyes.

_You're not quite as stupid as the rest, are you, Moran?_

“Fuck this,” you say, and get up from the bed to find some tissues.

***

“We're here," one of your companions for the night says.

“Right,” you say, looking up at him. He’s a good head taller than you, and built like a brick shithouse. “Rick, yeah?”

He nods and squints into the darkness. Not exactly the sharpest tool in the box, that one, but he’s reliable if nothing else.

The other one gets out of the back of the car, pulling up his jeans.

“And Steve, am I right?" you ask.

Steve gives almost the exact same nod as his brother did. He’s just a tiny bit taller than Rick, and he’s got a scar across his cheek, but apart from that they’re pretty much interchangeable. Still, you make a point of knowing your men’s names; shouting _hey, you_ in the middle of a gunfight never works out.

Not that tonight’s job requires guns, if all goes right.

You stand next to them and look ahead. There isn’t much to see, just trees. The occasional shrub. Which is probably why you’re not alone tonight. The boys apparently know Epping Forest by the back of their hand, and they should be able to guide you to the place of tonights’ meeting without too much trouble.

You try to suppress a shiver. It's incredibly dark, in a way that feels strange and oppressive after living in the city for over a year. And that's with a full moon, come here when the moon is dark and you wouldn't be able to see five yards. No wonder this is a common meeting place for gangs.

Rick puts a torch in your hands and you switch it on. It doesn't do anything much besides highlighting the darkness.

“You know the way?" you ask.

He nods again. Man of few words, and his brother too. They didn't say anything on the ride here either, just bobbed their heads to the beat of the music in eerie unison and ignored any attempt at conversation.

“Well then, lay on, MacDuff.”

He gives you an odd look but does as he's told. Steve falls into step at your back.

You don't like the forest much. Cities, winding streets and artificial light, or the wide open space of the desert, but not this. It's too dark, too many places for hiding, too many little noises. You twitch every time you hear a twig snap.

You point the torch to your left, but it’s like the darkness simply swallows the beam of light. “I could’ve sworn I heard something,” you say, your voice too loud in the silence.

“Deer,” Steve grunts.

You swing the beam around to his face. “You sure?”

“Yeah.”

You look back at the trees. Nothing there, just blurry darkness and a suggestion of movement that’s most likely your imagination. You continue your path.

A few minutes later there’s another loud rustle from the bushes. You freeze. “Did you hear - "

“Squirrel.”

“Right,” you say, starting to feel a little ridiculous. “Bloody big squirrel, if you ask me,” you mutter under your breath. A branch almost hits your face. You step into a combination of mulch and mud and sink in all the way to your ankle.

God, you _loathe_ this.

“How much longer?" you ask, ducking yet another branch.

Rick nods ahead. “We're here.”

The three of you step into a clearing and you breathe in deeply. It’s a relief, finally being able to see further than three yards, but they taught you about choosing your battlefields at Sandhurst and standing in the middle of an space like this means being exposed. Vulnerable. Anything could be hiding in the dark, watching you, biding their time...

“They're not here yet," Steve says.

“Yeah, thanks for stating the obvious,” you snap. You pace the perimeter of the clearing. It feels _wrong_ , your gut instinct is screaming at you.

The other party should have been here already.

You turn around. “Are you sure you - "

And then there's a loud bang and Steve collapses in front of you, the back of his skull a bloody mess. You’re flat on the ground in less than a second, nose and cheek buried in rotting leaves and wet soil. You crawl for a nearby bush. Hunting rifle, shot from the left, can’t be that far off or he wouldn’t have gotten a clean shot. You push up a bit and catch movement from between the trees.

Another shot hits a few yards from where you’re lying, different angle, so at least two different gunmen and this isn’t going to work. You look at Rick, who’s had the sense to drop down as well. You can see the white of his eyes, staring at his fallen brother.

You wave at him to get his attention and jerk your thumb over your shoulder. _Retreat,_ you mouth at him, and he nods, still wide-eyed. Another bullet hits a nearby tree, and unless you’re really mistaken that’s another angle, another gunman. You hold up three fingers, fold down one, the next, and then you scramble upright and start running. There are three quick consecutive shots, which manage to miss you but Rick goes down with a yell. No time to go back and check, you can only hope the poor bastard gets a quick death. 

You sprint and jump across fallen logs and branches and treacherous little ditches. It's a bloody obstacle course, and that thought triggers a memory: you’ve been here before. Not _here,_ obviously, but nine years ago, training for the SAS, playing hide and seek in the woods. You hated it then and you hate it now, the unfamiliarity of it, the unpredictability.

You skid behind a tree and take a few deep breaths, trying to take stock. At least three men with rifles, and you heard handguns too. You lean sideways and fire quickly at the shadowy shapes. You manage to hit at least one, judging by the cursing and the shouting, but there are too many of them to pick them off one by one. At least five, probably more.

You start running again.

There's a clear patch ahead and you swerve to the left to avoid it, looking over your shoulder. They’re closing in on you again and you fire another few shots, laying cover fire, and then your foot catches behind a root and you go down. Except the ground isn't level here anymore and you roll down an incline for what seems like miles, sharp rocks and pointy branches tearing at you. When you finally hit the ground the breath has been knocked out of you, but on the plus side you’re covered in twigs and dead leaves, which is the best camouflage you could ask for.

“Where is he?' you can hear someone shout. You close your eyes. There might be something in playing dead. In this darkness, you might have a chance to hide until they give up.

“Down there!”

Or not. You roll back up and start running again, no idea where you’re heading ‘cause one fucking tree looks just like the next one, especially at night. Your side feels like it's on fire but no time to check that out, no time to see if it's serious or not.

Your lungs are starting to hurt from the cold air.

There’s another memory of running through forests in the back of your mind, going hunting every summer for four years with your uncle. You loved it back then, the tension of following a trail, the thrill as you spotted your prey. It feels familiar, in a way, sprinting and jumping like this.

But it feels a hell of a lot different when you're the one being hunted.

You look over your shoulder again and when you look back you notice you've reached the edge of the forest. Ahead is only the abandoned road and lots of open space, and while it does mean you're finally able to fucking _see_ again, all you can think of right now is the first time you shot a deer, the way the panicked animal loped out of the forest into the open field, and how you calmly lifted your rifle and _took your time_.

You close your eyes and curse. Your clip is empty and you didn’t think to carry a spare, this was supposed to be boring routine job, not a fucking escape-and-evade mission, and your side is burning from something that you hope is not a gunshot wound and this is it, this is how you die, surrounded by the smell of trees and dirt, hunted down like a fucking fox and _this is not how you want to go_.

You look around wildly. There has to be something you can use as weapon, as cover, but there's nothing. You can hear them closing in on you, and the only way you can get out of this is the cavalry riding to rescue, which is really fucking improb-

Tires squeal somewhere nearby and you can hear your pursuers shout in confusion. You straighten up, one hand clutching your side. There won’t be another chance.

The car comes screeching around the bend, gunshots sound, and the door opens. It's too dark to see whose car it is but you'll take your chances. You sprint and jump inside, more falling than rolling, and someone closes the door behind you and pulls you down you down by the neck.

Whoever the driver is puts his foot down and the acceleration throws you back against the bottom of the seat. There are another few gunshots and one of them seems to shatter something but the rear windshield stays intact. The car takes a sharp corner and the gunshots stop. The hand on your neck lets go.

“Oh dear, they've hit the rear light," someone says, sounding almost bored, and a little voice inside you goes _oh shit_. You look up slowly, straight into the smiling face of Jim Moriarty.

So you've managed to get out of one deadly situation only to get into a possibly even more lethal one. 'Cause if there's one thing that everyone agrees on, it's that Moriarty does not appreciate failures. At least if you had stayed outside, you would have had a clean death.

“Go on then, get up.” He looks over his shoulder at the way behind. “Their cars are parked a good distance away from here, they won't follow us.”

You crawl up and fall back into the soft seat. Moriarty is still looking behind and the shine of the occasional streetlight is throwing his profile into sharp relief, black shadows where his eyes are supposed to be. “How did you know I was here?' you ask slowly.

“Lucky guess.” He turns his head and you quickly look down at your hands, which are shaking slightly from the stress. There's something about the way he looks at you that makes you feel exposed, and you're really not in the right mood to deal with this right now.

“I fucked up," you admit.

He sighs. “You walked blind into an ambush and managed to escape without a scratch. I wouldn't call that a fuck up, darling. In fact, the person who _did_ fuck up is being dealt with right now.”

Did he just call you _darling_? You must be hearing things. You lean back against the seat and run a hand over your face. The aftereffects of the adrenaline are starting to kick in and the come-down is going to be shit.

“Ah, not quite without a scratch, I see.”

You blink and turn your head. Moriarty is looking at your side, where your shirt is sticking to your skin in a spreading pool of scarlet.

You gingerly peel the fabric back. It's not a gunshot wound, thank god, just a scrape, which you must've got rolling down that hill. It's pretty spectacular, you look as if you've been flayed. It _feels_ that way too, even though it's probably not that serious. Bloody awkward place to bandage yourself, though.

“That looks nasty," he says, sounding almost admiring.

“It's nothing.” The last thing you want him to think is that you're weak, but he just shakes his head.

“And it is ruining your shirt, although, to be honest, that isn't much of a loss.” He turns so he's facing you, elbow leaning on the seat.

“I don't wear designer labels when I've got to crawl around in the dirt," you point out, before you can consider if it's really a good idea to talk back at him right now. It was the same the first time you met him, something about Moriarty makes all your usual brain-to-mouth filters go haywire.

His lip curls in distaste. “That, dear boy, is obvious. But I'd still let someone take a look at that, if I were you," he adds with a nod at your side.

“It isn't that - "

“So why don't you come back to my place and we can have a look at it, hm?”

He reaches out, puts his hand on your knee and gives you a sunny smile, as if you're a couple on a first date, as if it's perfectly normal for a crime lord to ask one of his men up for a patch-up.

You stare down at his hand on your leg. “Sorry, what?" you say, sounding utterly confused even to your own ears.

“Well, we can hardly let you go to the hospital, now, can we?" he tuts. “People might start asking questions, and we wouldn't want _that_ ," and beneath the jovial tone you can hear the threat.

“I am capable of patching myself up, sir," you say stiffly.

“Oh, I have no doubt that you're _very_ capable." He leers. “But wouldn't it be much more _fun_ to let me take care of you?”

His next smile almost seems cheerful. Almost. You search his face, trying to work out _what the hell is going on_ , but he's just giving you that inscrutable smile. So you nod.

“Excellent!" He lets go of your knee with a little squeeze and turns to the driver. “How much longer?”

“Half an hour, sir.”

“Hurry up, will you?" He bends down and reaches underneath the seat. “There's supposed to be – Aha, here.” He pulls out a sterile emergency compress, still in the packaging. “I'm sure you know what to do. Try not to bleed on the upholstery, that's actual leather.”

He drops the bandage in your lap and looks out of the window.

He stays silent for the rest of the ride.

***

The car pulls up in front of a fancy four-storey house in Knightsbridge. Moriarty jumps out without waiting.

You look up and catch the driver's eye in the rear-view mirror. His face is carefully impassive. Is that what you look like when you escort someone to an execution? If it is, you feel sorry for all the poor bastards, it's bloody horrible.

Moriarty leans back inside and knocks on the roof. “Go on, then," he says, still obscenely cheerful. You get out obediently.

You're barechested, your blood-soaked shirt and undershirt discarded on the floor of the car, and the cold air is a shock, enough to dispel the trancelike state you've been in since he came to rescue you. The car drives off immediately after you get out, and you're left standing, alone and freezing in the middle of the street. It feels like one of your dreams.

He rescued you. Now there's a thought. It would've been much easier for him to leave you there to die, but instead he took the trouble to drive to the edge of Greater London, into the middle of a gun fight. So he's got plans for you.

The thought makes your insides twist.

He clicks his fingers and you snap out of it and follow him to the door.  _His house_ , the hysterical voice in the back of your mind is chanting. _His house his house he’s taking you to his house_.

You haven’t heard any rumours about his home. No one has claimed to know where he lives. And definitely no one has ever visited him.

He opens the door and lets you in. A large empty hall with a lift and a staircase, all very white and clean and stylish. It’s dead silent - soundproofed? - and you can hear droplets of your blood hit the floor. There’s an odd smell, chemicals, something burnt.

“I’m on the top floor,” he says, still perfectly composed, as if he does this every day. The lift door opens. The back of it is a floor-length mirror and you catch sight yourself, pale, covered in scratches, hands trembling. You blink. Are you in shock? Could be.

A loud bang makes you jump. You look around, startled. Moriarty’s hand is resting on the lift door, he must’ve slammed it to keep it from closing.

“Moran,” he says, voice like melting butter. “Come.”

You limp to the lift. “Won't people notice a trail of blood leading to your front door?" you ask weakly.

“There's no one else in the building,” he says, the corner of his mouth raising in an understated smile.

“Right. Obviously.”

You lean against the wall of the lift. After a moment you notice his eyes are drifting over your chest, and that's a bit unexpected. He catches you looking and he smiles, tongue darting out to lick his lips.

A cheery ping announces you've reached the right floor. He pushes himself of off the wall, eyes on you for a second too long. You follow him in silence

You aren’t afraid. You should be, you know that, the chances that you are getting out of here alive are very very slim, and yet...

He opens another door and lets you into the main flat. Inside it’s sleek and modern, an interior decorator’s wet dream, with leather couches and glass tables and shiny light fixtures. The far wall is all glass, and it offers a truly spectacular view of London-by-night.

“Sit down.”

You spin around. He point to a chair and goes to another room, without waiting to see if you obey. Not that you’ve got much choice, your legs are starting to give out.

You sit down and give the room another look. There's something that looks like Monet on the wall, only someone scribbled on it with a fluorescent pink marker. There’s a laptop and a few manila folders lying on the coffee table, a bottle of water and a glass next to it. A bookcase, a large tv and dvd-player, a mantelpiece with a few statuettes and ornamental boxes.

It all looks so _normal_. Well, apart from the vandalised Monet, you don’t know many people who have one of those hanging in their living room.

A church nearby tolls three o'clock. You carefully peel back your hand from your side and look at the blood-soaked bandage.

_Wouldn't it be much more fun to let me take care of you?_

It’s difficult reconciling the Moriarty you’ve seen before with this one tonight. He’s different, less businesslike, more strange and unpredictable, more _playful_. Like a cat toying with a mouse just before he swallows it whole.

A door closes and Moriarty walks back in, carrying a first aid kit. Your eyes snap to him instantly. He drops the kit on the table and goes to the kitchen, all without saying a word. He pulls a cabinet open, runs the tap. You're still expecting him to pull out a gun. It would be the only thing that makes sense, really.

Instead he comes back with a bowl of water and a washcloth. He pulls up a chair with a scraping noise that makes you wince and sits down at your side, close enough that you can feel his body heat, see his chest rise and fall with every breath he takes. Your hand twitches. He peels back the compress with careful fingers.

It is just an abrasion, not too deep, and you've had far, far worse, but it is still bleeding. Moriarty stares at it for a second, licking his lips again, and for a second your imagination starts working overtime and you remember all the _weirder_ rumours about him.

His eyes meet yours and he smiles, as if he knows exactly what you’re thinking. But then he shakes his head and turns to the bowl. “Raise your arm,” he says calmly, dipping the washcloth in the bowl. He turns back, attention on your wound. “And rest it on my shoulder, you won’t be able to keep it up long enough.”

“First time anyone's ever said _that_ to me,” you say, again without thinking. He snorts but doesn’t reply. You put your hand on his shoulder, extremely aware of the bone and muscle beneath the the fabric of his suit. It’s... odd. Intimate, as if you’re about to pull him in for a kiss or something.

The wet cloth touches the broken skin and your shoulder tenses up involuntarily. You try looking straight ahead for a bit, but not seeing what he’s doing only makes it worse, so you focus on his face. He’s frowning in concentration, a little wrinkle between his eyebrows, lips pressed together. His hair is different again, slicked back. The suit is a better fit than last time, too, and this might just be his real appearance, no disguise. Or as real as he ever gets, anyway.

And he’s letting you see it. You swallow and try to quell your nerves.

“Your tetanus shots are up to date, I hope?" he asks, still busy cleaning away the dirt.

“What?" You tear your eyes away from his mouth. “Oh, er, I think so. Yeah, I had a booster thing a few years back, I’m good.”

“Good.” He dips the washcloth back into the bowl and the water turns pink. “You’ll survive.” He wrings the cloth, pink-tinged water cascading over his fingers. The clatter as it hits the bowl sounds unnaturally loud.

“Like I said,” you mumble, “I’ve survived worse.”

His eyes flick to the scar on your other side. “Yes, I can see that.”

Once he's done cleaning you up he takes a wad of cotton and a bottle of disinfectant from the first aid kit. The sharp smell fills the air. His fingers touch your side just above the wound, pulling the skin taut, fingertips warm against your air-cooled ribcage. The cotton touches the wound and the sting makes your stomach muscles tense. You bite the inside of your cheek to keep any noise in, and the corner of his mouth twitches upwards. 

He keep dabbing the cotton onto your skin with gentle, careful movements. You're trembling and you can’t stop it, can’t control your reactions anymore. Laid bare in a way that has nothing to do with the absence of clothes.

“Well, that's about as good as it's going to get," he says casually when he's finished. But instead of taking the gauze he spreads his hand flat over the wound, almost gentle, and you breathe in sharply in surprise.

“Interesting, isn't it," he whispers in your ear, leaning so close you can feel a puff of hot air against your cheek with every exhale, smell the cigarettes and chewing gum on his breath. His other hand closes on the back of your chair, trapping you, and it takes everything you have just to stay still, instead of pulling away or -

“Pain," he breathes, still _far_ too close. “Nerve endings screaming for attention. But," you try to regulate your breathing as his thumb carefully strokes upward, “play it right," your fist clenches against your thigh, “and it almost feels like pleasure.” He draws his hand down, nails scraping softly over sensitised skin, and your next breath comes out shaking.

He leans back. You almost tip into his side, balance lost, dizzy. His hand catches your shoulder and pulls you back up. “So!’ he says, suddenly cheerful, as if he didn’t just - just _did whatever the fuck he just did_. “Moran? Still with me?”

“Yeah.” You blink and shake your head, try to shake off this odd haziness.

“Good, because I need your attention.” He takes the gauze and presses it carefully against your side. “I have a proposition for you, you see,” he adds as he tapes the bandage down.

You dig your nails into your palm. It helps you to focus, just a bit. “What sort of proposition?”

“How would you like to work for me on a, say, more _personal_  basis?" He looks up from the bandage and meets your eyes, smiling.

"What, as your own personal chew toy?" you sneer. He presses hard into your side in retaliation and you wince. “Fucking _sadist._ “

“Don't tell me you've only worked that out now," he says, sounding almost disappointed, and you're eight years old again, quivering with eagerness to impress your tutor, to show him that you're smarter than the other kids.

“Yes," you say quickly.

“Yes what?”

“Yes, I'll work for you. On a – well. Whatever you want.”

“Interesting choice of words.” He stands up in front of you. You try to look down but he puts two fingers under your chin and tilts your head up, inspecting you. “Whatever I want, hm?" he says, soft and dangerous.

It would be tempting to say that your full-body shiver is a result of the cold, but you’re never anything but completely honest with yourself.

He drops his fingers and turns around. “In that case, I'll be seeing you. Wednesday, nine am, here. Dress better.”

You stand up and twist experimentally. The bandages stretch enough to allow movement. “Yessir," you reply automatically. Now he’s stopped invading your personal space your brain starts working again. “By the way, you haven’t got a shirt I can borrow or something, have you?”

He spins around again and raises his eyebrows.

“It would be a shame if I died of pneumonia before my first day of work, wouldn’t it?” you say calmly.

He cocks his head. “It would be _a shame_ to cover all that up, if you ask me,” he says, eyes on your chest. “But you’ve got a point.” He goes to the door and takes a coat, throwing at you. You catch it just in time, but the movement makes your side flare up in pain. “Here. My driver will take you home.”

“Thanks.” The coat is too small, but it’ll keep you warm long enough. When you look up he’s still staring at you.

“Nine am, Moran,” he says softly. “Don’t forget.”

As if you could ever _forget_ about any of this. You nod, he opens the door, and you go outside.

You can feel his eyes on you all the way to the lift.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (next chapter will be up Wednesday after next)
> 
>  **Sandhurst** : Sandhurst Military Academy. All prospective officers in the British Army have to complete a 44-week course there before they get their commission.


	3. Moriarty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which Seb's Boss Is An Unpredictable Psychopath With Control Issues

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: gunplay, murder, wee bit of explicit f/m sex
> 
> (a big thank you to my two Frenchpickers, monstersqueen and girlwith1oneye over at tumblr)

**3\. Moriarty**

_Yes shall we take a spin again in business_   
_Our time is fixed let's sweeten our facilities_   
_It took all the man in me_   
_To be the dog you wanted me to be_   
_(Massive Attack – Atlas Air)_

You arrive on Wednesday morning, nine am on the dot, dressed in your finest suit, feeling like a kid starting his first day of school.

The place looks less intimidating in daylight, but it's still bloody  _Knightsbridge_. When you get out of the cab, a young man in a keffiyeh comes out of one of the adjacent houses and gets into an Aston Martin. And that's not even the fanciest car in the street, there’s a blood-red Maserati parked a few yards away, one of those that looks more like a spaceship than a car. And the whole street is infested with security cameras, tiny blinking red eyes following you to the building. It makes the back of your neck itch.

The front door buzzes open before you can knock or ring. There's still blood on the shiny white tiles inside.

You bounce on your heels as you wait for the lift to reach the top floor. The last two days were hellish, sitting around, unable to move much because of your wound, allowing your imagination to come up with all sorts of possible scenarios for today. You have no idea what to expect.

He's waiting in the doorway of the main flat, hands in his pockets, face an unreadable mask. When you step out of the lift he gives you a quick once-over. “Well, it'll have to do, I suppose,” he says unenthusiastically. “Come in.” He pushes off the doorframe and you follow him inside.

His flat looks the same it did three nights before, stylish and neat, but the desecrated Monet is even more incongruous in daylight. There's also enough light now to identify the books in the bookcase. One shelf seems to contain nothing but books on astronomy.

Moriarty disappears into the other room and comes back in a few seconds later, carrying two holsters and a black, anonymous briefcase, not unlike the ones you had to receive and deliver for him before. He puts them on the table, his back to you.

“I'm meeting some very important people this afternoon,” he says. “For some reason they don't think I'm dangerous unless there's someone with a gun standing behind me.” He looks over his shoulder at you. “You know better, don't you Moran?’ He smiles. You swallow. “Anyway, I'm sure you know how this works. You stand still and do exactly as I tell you.”

“You're going as yourself?” you ask, remembering his decoy-Moriarty the first time you met him.

“Ye-es, so that should give you some idea how important they are. Put those on,” he adds with a nod at the table.

The gun is a Walther with the serial number filed off. The other holster holds a knife, of which you approve. Guns can be next to useless in close-quarter combat, but a blade can do a hell of a lot of damage, if you know how to use it. Which you do.

You go down on one knee and attach it to your ankle, feeling his eyes on the back of your neck. He seems to be back to cold professionalism, which is probably for the best. His handsy flirting was more than a little unnerving.

“You understand what to do?” he asks.

You stand up. “I was in the army for eleven years, I know how to follow orders.”

“You better. How’s your driving?”

“Erm... Acceptable?”

He throws you a set of keys and you pluck them one-handed out of the air. No fumbling this time. “I’ll be the judge of that,” he says. “Now come on, let’s see if letting you live was the right decision.”

You follow him downstairs.

***

You drive him to the other side of town in a sleek black Mercedes. He sits in the back, keeping quiet. Occasionally you catch him frowning, or his lips moving, as if he’s rehearsing.

You’re still nervous. It feels like a test, an audition. If you fuck this up you’ll end up dead, there’s no question about that. It would help if you had some idea of what you’re going to have to do, but he didn’t give you any more information. That’s probably part of the test as well, seeing how you react to unpredictable situations.

Or not. Christ, you have  _no idea_  what’s going on in his head.

He makes you pull up in front of a large hotel. You get out and open the door of the car for him, feeling a little like a bellboy. He hands you the briefcase and straightens his suit, cracks his neck. And then something  _changes_ about him, subtle but there, posture a little straighter, stiffer.

Disguising himself again. Is he ever just himself? Hell, is what you saw in his flat only a disguise as well?

He snaps his fingers and you fall into step behind him, into the hotel and straight past reception to the lift. Once inside he leans his hands on the railing and looks at his shoes, frowning a little. Still concentrating, planning?  

He sees you watching and gives you a quick smile. "Nervous?" he asks.

You shrug. "A bit."

He doesn't say anything else, just stares at you with a smile until the lift reaches the seventh floor. Only then does the smile disappear again. You follow him outside to a room at the end of the hallway. He knocks sharply and the door is opened almost immediately.

Five men are already inside, obviously waiting, and from the second you step inside you can feel the tension. You take up position at Moriarty's shoulder, giving you an overview of everyone inside. They’re giving you threatening looks, posturing, but Moriarty seems supremely unimpressed. Although there  _are_ five of them and only one of you – Moriarty's suit fits too well to allow a gun hidden beneath – so if it comes to a fight you're really going to have to prove yourself.

“Mr Moriarty?” one of them asks, American, probably New York.

“The one and only. How did the chat with the Russians go?” His accent is different again, sounding a lot like yours this time. He seems to switch accents as easily as other men switch shoes.

Their boss squares his shoulders. “It went fine, thanks to your intervention.”

“You came to an agreement?” he asks. You send him a quick look. He looks odd, smiling, but there’s a nasty edge to it.

“Yeah, we – "

“Lovely,” Moriarty interrupts cheerfully. “That's how I like things to go.”

“So can you – "

“And you definitely didn't go and talk to Clay, did you?”

And that explains it. John Clay is a name you've heard before, another one of London's hidden crime bosses, you’ve even worked for him once or twice. A cheap version of Moriarty, really. No wonder he's pissed off.

“About that – ” the boss says, looking uncomfortable.

“Because that would be ignoring my  _express instructions_. And you wouldn't do something stupid as that, would you?”

“Look, we just wanted to – "

“You were going to  _lie_ to me, Mr Venucci,” Moriarty says, smile suddenly gone. One of the men takes a sharp audible breath and another one takes a small step backwards, but their boss looks more annoyed than scared.

“It's not a case of - ”

“You're unreliable. It was a mistake, coming here. Goodbye. You won't be hearing from me again.”

Moriarty turns around, but when you move to follow he shakes his head. You stay facing the room.

“Listen, you pretentious little  _fuck_  - "

You meet Moriarty's eyes, and he gives you an almost imperceptible nod. Before anyone in the room can even move, you pull your gun and shoot the bastard in the throat.

There's a stunned silence, only broken by the gurgling sounds of the man lying on the floor, which die away soon enough.

Moriarty turns around again. “I do  _not_ appreciate rudeness,” he says coolly, but then he claps his hands once and smiles. “Now, who’s going to step up?” he asks, once again disconcertingly jovial. “Who’s going to be the brave one? Come on, chaps, no need to be shy.”

They shift and look at each other, at Moriarty, at you, too. You give them your most threatening grin.

“No one?" Moriarty pulls a disappointed face. "Well, in that case...”

One man steps forward quickly. “I will,” he says. He licks his lips and looks down at the body of his late boss.

Moriarty grins. “Good man. You will go to John Clay and tell him in no uncertain terms that any agreement you had with him is over, and once you've done that, I'll give you what you need. Yes?”

"Yes,” the man says, pale as a sheet.

“And you know what will happen if you don't, don't you?” Moriarty says softly. The man gives another quick nod.

Moriarty turns again and this time he snaps his fingers at you. You take his briefcase and follow him without a word until you're in the lift. “They – ”

Moriarty mimes a zipper over his mouth and you frown.

 _They're listening,_ you mouth at him, raising your eyebrows in question.

He shrugs,  _maybe_.

So you wait until you're outside the building before you ask, “Safe?”

“Probably. What is it?”

“They outnumbered us.”

He gives you a sardonic look. “So you can count to five, can you? I'm impressed.”

You hold your tongue, chastised, and hold the door of the car open for him. You get back in the driver’s seat. The holster feels heavy against your chest.

He keeps quiet for several minutes and you’re getting more on edge by the second. What if you unwittingly made a mistake, and he’s now reconsidering his decision? Maybe he’s already planning your execution. You stop in front of a traffic light, hands on the wheel, expecting to feel a muzzle against your neck any second now. But when you look at him in the rearview mirror he looks calm.

“Power is an illusion, Moran," he says. "Fairytales." He grins, like he knows some kind of secret joke. “Those men practically  _own_  New York, and they were armed to the teeth, but they knew I was,” his voice drops low, “ _James Moriarty, master criminal_ , and the thought that they could just shoot me and take what they want didn't even cross their mind. That's what power is. Making people believe what you want them to believe.”

“Like making someone believe you're a scared bookish clerk?” you ask, unable to resist.

“The light's green,” he says calmly. You shift into gear and drive on.

***

You don’t hear anything from him for four days, but then he sends a message.  _Come to the British Museum_ , it says, nothing else.

It's a school holiday, the museum is crowded, and you forgot how bloody big this place is. You send him a text,  _where_ , and he sends back,  _find me_.

A challenge if ever you saw one.

You find him after thirty minutes of prowling the different floors, sitting on a bench in the main room of one of the smaller collections, religious art or something. He's in disguise again, blending in with the tourists, wearing a jumper with a print of the Big Ben and worn jeans. It makes him look deceptively normal.

He pats the bench and you sit down next to him, waiting for orders. He leans into your side, shoulder to shoulder, keeping quiet. You can feel the heat of his body through the thick cotton, smell a faint mixture of deodorant and sweat. It's distracting.

You give in after about a minute. “Alright, why are we here?”

“I want to teach you something.” His accent is broad Australian today, god knows why. He looks at you sideways. “If you're capable of learning, I mean.”

“I'll do my best,” you say, pointedly not reacting to his little jab.

“I would expect nothing less. Well then, look around the room and tell me what you see.”

You look at him, trying to see if he's serious. Seems like it, because the only reaction you get is a raised eyebrow.

“Paintings,” you say dryly.

He gives you an unimpressed look. “You're gonna have to do better than that, y'know.”

“Fine.” You give the room another look, eyes skipping from the corners to the people in it. “Four security cameras,” you say, suspecting that that's what he's after. “One in each corner, but there's a dead corner over there.” You nod at the corner. “One security guard patrolling both this room and the two adjacent ones. And that's it, I suppose.”

“Not bad. Not  _good_ , either, but I suppose that could only be expected.”

You look around again. “Why, what did I miss?”

Moriarty sighs and leans backwards, looking at the ceiling. “The security guard is recently divorced, tired, and looking for a new job, so likely to be sloppy. There's a girl in this room who's been coming here for the last ten days, and will likely come again for at least another two days, she'll notice if even the slightest detail changes in this room. The guide showing those tourists around has faked her degree and gets all her information from wikipedia, so that one  _won't_  notice if details change. The cameras are a few years old, unlike the other cameras in the larger collections, which means the security footage is displayed on another system, probably mostly ignored in favour of the more important rooms. Close your mouth, Sebastian, we are not codfish.”

You stop gaping at him and look at the guard, the girl, the guide. There’s no way in  _hell_ he could know all that, just by looking. You look back at him and raise an eyebrow. “So you actually can read minds, then?”

“Don’t be an idiot,” he says impatiently. “It isn’t anything special, it's obvious to anyone who looks.”

“And you honestly expect me to be able to do that? Because I don't think I can.”

“Maybe not. But you will need to do a little better than you did just now if you want to be of use. Look again. What do you  _see_? Start with the guard,” he adds.

“Dark circles under her eyes. And...” you lean forward. “And the Metro in her bag, something's circled, job vacancies? But how do you know she's divorced?”

“She keeps fiddling at the place where a wedding ring should be. Small details, but aren't they all?” He stands up. “People really are depressingly easy to read, once you learn how. Practice.”

“How?” you ask, more than a little exasperated.

“Use your  _eyes_. See what's there.” He smiles. “After all, you've done it before.”

He turns around and you watch him leave. Once he's gone, you turn your attention to the guide, who, you now notice, keeps mispronouncing  _Charlemagne_.

Small details, he says. Well, you can do that.

***

_What do you see?_

It's a question you come to hate over the next few weeks. He asks it over and over again, every place he takes you, everyone he sends you to spy on,  _what do you see_.

But he's right, there's a trick to it, and after a while you start doing it without thinking: looking for bitten fingernails, the age and make of clothes, the shoes, the makeup, the hair, all the tiny clues and the explanations behind it. You don't get anywhere near as good as Moriarty himself, who can learn a person's entire life history in one sweep of those eyes, but then again you never really expected to.

Jim Moriarty, as far as you're concerned, exists in another plane of being altogether.

_***_

“ _What do you see?”_ he asks over the phone.

You lean on the balustrade and look down.

“Kids, six of 'em, between thirteen and seventeen. They're angry and blaming each other because they lost a fight with a neighbouring gang, and one of them is planning something stupidly reckless. His mum’s boyfriend’s back from prison and he's desperate to get out of the flat, and he's found a really nasty knife somewhere that he's scared of using. Will that do or do you want me to go on?”

“That'll do,” he says over the phone, curt and businesslike. “Get over here, will you?” He ends the call.

He's grumpy again, for some reason. No use trying to guess why, there's no logic to his moods.

You pass the gang on your way out. They stop their arguing briefly to throw you hostile looks, but they leave you alone, like they've been doing from the start. Smart enough to recognise a serious threat, but of course you have to be smart around here, survival of the fittest counts double on the estates.

After that the trip across London feels like an illustrated tour of the British class system. The kids in school uniform on the bus, the stifled respectability of the terraced houses, a couple of suited businessmen and -women in the underground, ending with the crème-de-la-fucking-crème, Knightsbridge's new and old money, mingling with mutual disdain. It’s hard to imagine those people inhabit the same world as the kids from the estates, and as always you feel a brief wave of hostility against the entire fucking neighbourhood, the culture it represents. There’s a  _reason_  you joined the army.

But Moriarty does seem to like luxury.

The door of the penthouse is open but you knock anyway, just to be on the safe side. When he's in a bad mood, he snaps at even the slightest perceived impoliteness. You hear a muffled  _get in_. He's bustling about in what you suspect is the bedroom, so you wait in the living room.

You look around. There's something different from last time.

“What happened to the Monet?” you call to the bedroom.

The door opens and Moriarty walks in. “Got bored with it, so I dumped it.”

“So you threw a painting worth millions of pounds in the skip because you were bored with it?”

He frowns. “Are you surprised again? Because I'm getting bored with that, too.”

Monet has been replaced with what you think is Bosch, judging by the dark colours and the general  _weirdness_  of the thing. This one is in mint condition, though, no scorch marks to be seen.

“He was high off his head on weed when he painted, you know,” you say lightly.

“Yes, I know, stop trying to impress me.” He glares at you from beneath his brows. “You're very chatty today.”

“Sorry.” You shut up and stand at ease, army style. He flops down on the couch, fingers touching the carpet. That’s another thing about him, he never just  _sits_  like normal people would. He sprawls, he hangs, he poses or he leans, and one time you came in to find him lying spread-eagled on the kitchen floor.

“You're going to Paris.” He frowns at you, upside-down. “You  _do_ speak French, don't you?”

“ _Bien sûr_.”

He sits up and gives you a look. “Of course you do, clever little diplomat’s lad."

How the hell does he know that? You don't talk about your father,  _ever_ , so how did he - but this is Moriarty, of course he knows, stupid of you to be surprised by it.

"Anyway, be a good boy and keep that quiet," he continues. "I want you to listen in without them knowing you're listening." He falls back down on the couch, eyes closed, like a fainting Victorian heroine. Not that that's a comparison you're willing to share. You're cocky, not suicidal.

"Right."

There's a ticket for the Eurostar on the desk,” he adds with an imperious little wave of his hand. 

You walk over to the desk, and just as you take the paper there is movement in the corner of your eye. You raise your hand just in time to catch a mobile.

He's been pelting random objects at you for weeks now, obviously hoping to catch you unaware. So far, you've caught every last one of them, even if the champagne glass last week was a bit of stretch. It's just another test, and this one at least is easy to understand.

“I've already got a mobile,” you say.

“This one is a one-off, I prefer to play it safe.” He starts reciting, almost chanting, the details. “The man you're meeting is called Dominique, pompous little man but capable enough. You're leaving tomorrow, your train arrives in Paris at three in the afternoon. You'll be staying at the Four Seasons for two nights - "

“No.”

For a moment everything is silent. From your position by the desk the only thing you can see from Moriarty are his feet sticking out from behind the sofa.

“Funny, I thought I heard you say  _no_ ,” he says casually.

“I'm not staying at the Four Seasons, or the fucking Ritz. Anything above three stars is a bloody waste, in my opinion. Sir,” you add after remembering that this is a man who literally kills people for looking at him funny.

“Closet communist, Moran?” he drawls, still hiding behind the couch.

“Just trying to save you some money.”

“I don't  _need_  you to save me money, I  _swim_  in money.”

There is another silence. Does he have a weapon beneath the sofa? He would be the type to keep guns in strange places, just in case. You're already looking for potential cover when he speaks up again.

“Fine, be eccentric, I'll cancel the reservation, go to the Holiday Inn for all I care.” He shifts in the couch, and his foot starts bouncing rhythmically. “You're meeting with Dominique on Thursday evening, I'll email you the address of the café. You report back word by word and you do exactly as I tell you. Don't do anything stupid, don't try to take initiative, just listen.”

“Got it.”

He gets up again, peering at you from across the room. “I hope for your sake that you  _have_.”

“I'm not a complete idiot.”

“That, dear boy, remains to be seen.” He drops again, this time leaving one pale hand resting against the back. “Although you haven't been doing badly so far.”

“Is that a compliment?” you ask. It's the first time he has commented on your performance, and although you're sure that if you were doing badly, you'd  _know,_  it's still reassuring.

“It  _might_  be. I'll have the details sent over, off you go then.”

You pocket the phone and the ticket and head for the door, but as you're passing the couch his hand shoots out and catches you around the wrist. It takes quite a bit of self-control not to react.

“I mean it, Sebastian Moran,” he says, dark eyes intent on your face. “Don't do anything stupid.”

You shake his hand off. “I  _won't_.”

It takes several minutes before your heartbeat is back to normal.

***

It’s a routine job, really: go somewhere fancy and negotiate with another party. The only difference seems to be the location. Doesn’t Moriarty trust other people enough to send them abroad?

Although there’s that thing he said about speaking French. You used to do something similar back when you were in the SAS, playing stupid and listening in to your prisoners’ conversations. People often get overconfident when they think they’re smarter than you, and overconfidence leads to mistakes.

You stride into the restaurant of the Marriott hotel with that thought in the back of your mind. _Pretend you’re a twat_. God knows you saw enough examples of stupid-proud-chauvinistic-Englishman in your youth to fake one convincingly.

The waiter points you to a table by the window, and when you approach the two men sitting there stand up. “Monsieur Moran?” one of them says, deep throaty r, not pronouncing the n.

You look him up and down. Dominique turns out to be short and fat and full of that slimy condescending arrogance that seems to be typical for his kind of businessman.

“That’s me. Bonjour," you say, twisting the vowels as much as you can, so it comes out sounding like  _bown-jooer_. His answering wince is quite satisfying.

“Please, sit down," he says, gesturing at the chair opposite of him. His companion nods at you.

“C’est un plaisir de faire votre connaissance," he says.

You fake polite confusion. “Sorry?"

Dominique gives you a greasy smile. “You must excuse my friend, he does not speak English.”

You wave your hand, using your own brand of superiority. “Doesn’t matter, you can translate if we need it."

The man turns to Dominique. “Il ne comprend pas?"

“Apparemment pas. L’Araignée nous a envoyé un imbecile.”

The other one grins. “Parfait. On va pas avoir difficulté à le convaincre, l’enfoiré.” 

Dominique turns back to you. “My friend is just saying how pleased he is to see you.”

That’s a  _very_ loose translation, to say the least. “Likewise, naturally.”

They play at translating again. “C’est un vrai connard, lui,” Dominique says, which is bloody stupid. Even if you weren’t fluent in French, you could have easily picked up somewhere what  _connard_ means.

“Dis-lui d’aller se faire enculer.”

“He’s looking forward to working with you.”

It’s all you can do to keep a straight face. “Right then, messieurs. To business.”

***

“They're going to double cross you,” you tell Moriarty over the phone from inside a little café. It’s a very different place from the fucking Marriott, wood-panelled walls and small tables. It’s intimate and artsy and a bit shabby.

And that’s Paris in a nutshell, really. It feels smaller than London, somehow, less impersonal. And dirtier, but not necessarily in a bad way. It’s an interesting change.

“Are you sure?”

You look outside of the window. It’s snowing, which looks pretty now but will be hell to walk over later. “They were laughing about it right to my face. And they didn’t even suspect I understood, otherwise they wouldn’t have kept calling me a - what was it again? Ah, yes:  _éspèce de merdeux de con d'anglais._ Right to my face as well."

“Is your pride hurt?” he asks, definitely sounding amused. His mood has improved then, thank god.

“I've been called worse.” A dark-haired Parisienne steps through the front door, shaking snow from her shoulders. “What do you want me to do with them?”

“Leave them to it. I know what they're up to now, let them think they've outsmarted me for a while. And I need time to think up something suitably gruesome to punish them.”

The woman raises her hand elegantly at the waiter. “Do you want me to come back?” you ask absently, eyeing her long fingernails, the delicate turn of her wrist.

The phone stays silent. You forget about the hot brunette and focus on the conversation. Did you say something wrong?

“Sir?” you ask, free hand edging carefully to your shoulder holster. What if...

“Yes, come back,” he says eventually. “You can be of use here.”

You slump back into your chair in relief. “Want a tiny Eiffel Tower as a souvenir?”

“I don't  _do_  souvenirs, Moran, you should know that by now. London's calling, dear boy, don't keep her waiting.”

He ends the call. You put your phone back in your inside pocket and take a sip from your by now lukewarm coffee. The brunette is sending you interested looks, but for some reason any interest you had in her has evaporated.

London calling. You almost feel homesick, which is a first. You close your eyes and have a startlingly clear image of Moriarty standing at his massive window, looking out at London, his phone in his hand.

You put the money down and leave for your hotel.

***

“Keys!” The girl – Emily, Emilia, something like that - squeals as you try to work your hands beneath her shirt. “Will you - I’m bloody well not going to shag you in the hallway, love,” she says, voice rich with laughter. She gives you a half-hearted push, and you grin and give her room to turn around and root in her handbag.

You haven’t fucked anyone since before Paris, and that’s more than a  _month_ ago. Must be all the work that’s keeping you distracted. Even tonight you would have gone home alone if it hadn’t been for Em-something and her surprising forwardness, but  _god_ are you glad you came across her. She’s pretty as well, dark eyes and a full pouty mouth, and she’s got none of the self-consciousness you usually associate with chubby girls - hell, she almost seduced you instead of the other way around. Whoever said that aggression isn’t attractive in women seriously needs his head checked.

She’s still searching, pulling out a random assortment of things and putting them back again, including something that looks like a large lipstick but that you suspect is a vibrator. You wrap your arms around her soft waist, nuzzle her neck, slide your hand lower. 

She chuckles again and catches your wrist, stopping your descent. “God, someone’s eager.”

“You can talk.” You nip at her earlobe. “I wasn’t the one trying to crawl into someone’s lap  _in public_ , if I recall correctly.”

“Oh, that wasn’t a  _complaint_ , sweetheart.” She throws you a filthy smirk over her shoulder and finally manages to open her door.

You barely make it through before she lunges. You take hold of her hips and swing her around, landing her back hard against the wall. She gasps, but when she pulls off her eyes are bright and she’s grinning.

"Like it a bit rough, do you?" you drawl, and she gives you another excited grin.

"I like my men  _strong_ ,” she says.

"Yeah?" You drop your hands to her arse and lift her up - no mean feat, the girl isn’t exactly a lightweight. She laughs in delight and her legs go around your waist, ankles crossed behind your back.

"Sure you can keep me up, big boy?" she says, grazing her nails against your nape. "I’d hate to crush you beneath me right when things are getting interesting.”

"I never have problems keeping  _anything_ up." You adjust your hold and slide your hand up over the bottom of her thigh until your fingers find the satin of her panties. She gasps again and trusts her hips forward, and her hand goes to your jeans.

And then your phone starts ringing.

"Fuck,” you say against her neck. She drops her feet back to the floor and you check the screen, one hand still on her waist.  _JM_ , of course, who else would it be? Shit sense of timing, though.

"Your wife?" the girl asks, with an accompanying ironic look.

"Yeah, something like that. Sorry." You let go of her waist and answer the call. "Yes?"

"Are you at home?” Moriarty asks.

“Er, no, I’m – "

“Then come to Mile End tube station, " he says curtly. “I’ll bring a weapon.”

"Now? Because I'm sort of in the middle of - "

"That wasn't a  _request_ , Moran."

"Yes sir." You end the call and give her an apologetic look.

"Either you have a  _very_ kinky wife,” she says, “or that was a bit more complicated than you said it was."

"The latter, unfortunately. I am sorry about this, but...”

“Just my sodding luck.” She tips her head back against the wall, closes her eyes. “But if you have to go, you have to go. I’m not going to chain you to my bed, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“More’s the pity,” you can’t resist saying.

She opens her eyes again and pulls a pained face. “You’d best bugger off, love, before I change my mind and get the handcuffs out anyway.”

“Yeah, well, I’d  _love_ to stay, I really would, but…” You wave a hand at your phone.

“Ah, don’t worry about me, sweetheart,” she says with a slightly strained smile. “I’ve always got Joey to keep me company.”

“Joey?” You raise your eyebrows. “You’ve got another bloke stashed ‘round here somewhere? Cause love, if you wanted a threesome all you had to was  _ask_.”

She snorts. “I wish. Nah, Joey’s my vibrator.”

“The one in your handbag?” you ask, smirking.

She laughs. “Noticed that one, did you? No, Joey’s the  _big_ one. For special occasions only.”

“Now there’s a lovely image." You look at the door, and then back at her, with her flushed cheeks and heavy heaving breasts and rucked-up skirt. “Ah, fuck it, he can wait a bit longer.” You go down on your knees in front of her and slide her pants down, and she raises her eyebrows.

"Really? Wouldn’t want to be the reason you get sacked, love.”

"I don’t have a habit of leaving people I pick up unsatisfied,” you say, lifting her leg over your shoulder, "and I’m not about to start now."

"Oh,  _you_ picked  _me_ up? I thought it was the oth- ” she starts, but she shuts up soon enough once you’ve got your mouth against her cunt. She moans loudly and grabs a handful of your hair. You take her hip to steady her. Her other hand flails around blindly until she closes her fingers around a shelf and she makes a helpless little sound.

“Not to worry,” you say, pulling back and looking up at her. "I’m not going to let you fall."

“Much appreciated,” she pants, and you get back to it.

Women are a bit more of a challenge, generally speaking, but in the end sex always comes down to the same things. Action and reaction, desperate little noises and tightening fingers, experimenting and readjusting and finding out what makes ‘em moan. And this one at least isn’t shy about it, has no compunction about directing you, gotta love a woman who knows how to take charge. And she’s already turned-on enough that she probably won’t need  _that_ long.

Because as casual as you were, she might have a point. You’ve never before disobeyed Moriarty, but... But this isn’t really disobedience, is it? Just a bit of delay, not that different from when your bus is late. You’ll survive.

Hopefully.

“ _Jesus_ ,” she gasps, interrupting your thoughts. She reaches down and heaves you up by the collar, smashes her lips against yours. “You’re _good_ ,” she says breathlessly, hands going to your arse.

“Want to see what else I can do?” you ask, raising your eyebrows. She grabs your wrist and drags you forcefully to her bedroom.

You don’t even make it to the bed.

***

You step out of the cab and look around the dark tube station. No Moriarty to be seen, has he given up and left without you?

But then a small noise catches your attention and you amble to a dark corner at the side of the station. Moriarty is leaning against the wall with his eyes closed, streetlights throwing strange shadows over his face.

“Finally,” he says, and cracks one eye open. “When I give you an order I expect you to obey  _immediately_ , Moran, not after forty minutes of...” He opens his other eye and gives you a very disdainful look.

"Fucking?" you suggest.

"You look  _debauched_."

You wipe at your slightly swollen mouth. "It’s pretty bad manners to leave in the middle of a shag. Sir."

He reaches into his coat and hands you a gun in a shoulder holster. “Couldn’t resist the siren song of your cock?" he sneers.

"Siren song of a willing woman’s cunt, as a matter of fact." You shrug your jacket off, take the holster and fasten the straps over your shoulder. "If it were only about me I’d just have a quick wank somewhere private and that would be it.  _Sir_." You put your jacket back on and take the gun, checking it. When you look up Moriarty is studying you.

"So it was, what,  _courtesy_?" he asks, sounding a bit disbelieving.

You shrug. "Something like it. I just think it’s a pretty arseholish thing to do, leave someone, er,  _halfway there_.”

"I’m surprised you care that much about your partners."

You pause, gun halfway back to your jacket, and frown at him. "Of course I  _care_. I’d be a pretty dreadful fuck if I didn’t."

He cocks his head, staring at you with open curiosity. "Most men don’t."

You snort. "Yeah, I’ve noticed that. But where the hell is the fun in shagging someone who isn’t enjoying it as well?"

He’s still staring at you, like he can’t make sense of you. It’s the first time you’ve seen him looking this confused, and, what, because of what you like in bed? It’s absurd. “And no offence, sir,” you say, “but why exactly are we discussing my sex life?”

"Because your  _sex life_ made you forty minutes late,” he snaps, curiosity suddenly replaced with annoyance. “So I’d start trying to make up for lost time, if I were you." He jerks his head and you fall into step behind him. Discussion closed, obviously.

He reaches into his coat again and hands you a knife in a sheath. You roll your sleeve up and strap it around your forearm. “So, what’s tonight?” you ask, flexing your arm.

“For you? Bodyguarding, glowering at people and making sure no one tries to kills me. In case it’s needed, you’ll address me as Mr Sheremetev.”

“Mr Sherm- what?”

“Sheremetev,” he repeats, with a glare. “I thought you were supposed to be good at languages?”

“Not Slavic ones. So, it’s someone important then?” When he doesn’t reply, you add, “You know, because you’re going as...” You trail off under his withering glare.

“If I wanted to hear your clever little deductions, Moran, I’d  _ask_. Not that I ever will.”

You try to hide a wince. He’s unusually snappy tonight. Because you were late? Or specifically because you were shagging someone? But hell, it’s not like he asked you to take a vow of celibacy or something, he’s got no right to be pissed off about this.

“So,” you say, still a little uneasy. “How dangerous is it going to be? Exactly how big is the chance they will try to kill you?”

“About as big as – " he starts, tone sharp, and then he visibly checks himself, stopping whatever it was he was going to say. Which is unsual, to say the least: usually he chooses his words with calculated deliberation, pronounces them with the precision of a stage actor. There’s something really odd going on here.

“Smallish,” he says instead. “But you never know. Keep alert.”

“I always do.”

"So far, yes. Here we are." He stops in front of the door of a pub and gives you a look. You check your holster one last time and give a quick nod. No use dwelling on Moriarty’s inner workings when you’ve got a job to do.

He takes a deep breath and pushes the door open. You follow behind, automatically taking stock, noting the exits and potential hiding places, committing every detail to memory. It’s a skill you developed years ago, but you’ve honed it to perfection under Moriarty’s tutelage. It’s part of the work you do for him, after all. He likes sending you out to be his eyes and ears, to get the feel of a specific place he for some reason doesn't want to visit himself. It’s a good thing your visual memory is fairly well-developed, because you can’t count the times he made you stand in his living room, eyes closed, describing every last detail of wherever he sent you.

He goes straight to a back door which leads to a small hallway. When the door falls closed behind you, the noise of the pub disappears almost entirely, which means it’s soundproofed. Could be an advantage, the sound of gunshots always attracts attention, even in places like this one.

There’s a guard standing wait at a door at the end. He gives the both of you a cursory look but lets you pass without any thorough check. There are three men inside, big, mean-looking, tattooed and badly-shaven. They don’t look that impressive, but they have to be, otherwise Moriarty wouldn’t be here.

From what you’ve gathered Moriarty has a complex system of importance, which decides how close people get to him personally. Most clients – and you’re still not over the fact that he calls them  _clients_ , like he’s doing nothing harmful than giving legal advice – most of them get emails or letters, untraceable messages. Some of the more interesting ones get to meet with a representative, which is another part of your job these days. And that’s also where things get complicated, because Moriarty sometimes pretends to be a representative for  _himself_.

Which is what he’s doing right now, conducting his business in Russian-accented English, playing yet another role.

It goes beyond complex, really. Moriarty’s world is a glorious, complicated, breathtaking mess, and one you have no chance of working out, not with the little he tells you. He never gives you anything beyond what’s strictly necessary. You might be more closely involved in Moriarty’s business than anyone else alive, but you’re still very much held at a distance. It’s like he –  

One of them is reaching for his gun. You act out of instinct, without real conscious thought. You lunge and intercept his hand before he can reach his weapon, wrench his wrist away and flip him around, pulling his arm behind his back with one hand and putting your knife against his throat with the other. He freezes against you, smart enough not to try and fight.

There’s a tense silence. Moriarty meets your eyes, but you can’t read what’s in them, what he wants from you right now.

“Are you going to kill me?” he asks the boss, sounding perfectly composed.

The man shrugs. “Just a misunderstanding. I’m sure Kev wouldn’t do anything so stupid like  _trying to shoot_ , would you Kev?”

Ah. Trigger-happy second in command, makes sense. Kev gives a choked grunt, Moriarty nods at you, and you step back, go to stand at Moriarty’s shoulder again.

"And we were done here, yes?" Moriarty asks. "Unless there's anything else?"

The boss shakes his head. "No, it's all pretty clear. Tell Moriarty - Well. Give him my thanks, alright?"

Moriarty gives a serious nod and says, still in that odd Eastern-European accent, "I am sure he will appreciate it."

God, he must be cackling inside.

He shakes hands and leaves the room. You follow him back through the hallway to outside and take a deep breath of the cool night air, chasing away the smell of old sweat and stale beer and cigarette smoke that permeated the room inside. Moriarty stretches and yawns.

“Like  _hell_ that was a misunderstanding,” you say.

“Yes, I know, well done you.” He looks up at you, a strange half-smile on his face. “I sometimes forget how  _fast_  you are, Moran.”

“That’s why you hired me, isn’t it?”

"Part of the reason, yes." He turns around and heads for his car, and you fall into step behind him, thinking. Why _did_ he hire you? You're good, you're one of the best in business, but... It's more than that, isn't it? You have a  _connection_ , something shared, the way his eyes meet yours...

Christ, getting sappy again. You clear your throat and Moriarty briefly looks over his shoulder at you. "You're not getting a cold, are you?" he asks, amused.

"Hope not."

"Good, because a sneezing bodyguard isn't very impressive."

"I'm sure I could pull off a threatening sneeze if it was needed, sir."

"Well, if anyone could, it would be you." He stops in front of his car and the driver switches the engine on. You hold the back door open for him, but when you move to get inside as well he puts his hand on the door. “What do you think you’re doing?” he asks, smiling.

“Er… Any chance of a lift?”

“No.”

“Right.” You let go of the door and step back, get your phone out to call a cab. Moriarty leans out to close the door.

“Sir?” you ask impulsively.

He pauses and looks up at you from beneath his brows. “Yes?”

_What was that all about? What happened tonight? What’s it all bloody for?_

“Never mind.”

He slams the door closed and the car pulls away. You’re left standing beneath a flickering streetlight, watching him disappear into the dark.

You’re still on the outside looking in, and it rankles.

***

There’s a certain thrill in strolling through Downing Street with a folder full of illegally obtained documents under your arm. Security is right there, and all it would take is one tip-off, one search, and you’d be behind bars.

Not that Moriarty would ever allow that to happen. In the nine months you’ve been working for him personally there hasn’t been a single occasion where you even came close to being found out. He never takes any chances.

You show your faked security clearance at the gates and they let you through without a second glance. It’s crowded beyond the gates, people everywhere. You dart between the flocks of tourists and a few stray civil servants, instantly recognisable by their bland suits and matching expressions. Swerve and hurry, duck to avoid having your picture taken, wade your way through a pack of Spanish pensioners following their guide like ducklings.

Summer holidays. Always a laugh.

You finally reach the tube station and head down the blessed darkness. It’s still crowded here, but at least you can fucking  _breathe_. And besides, no better place to further practice your people-reading skills than the tube.

Young blonde with an oversized portfolio beneath her arm, ink-smudged fingers, wearing new high heels - newly graduated architect, on her way to a job interview. The middle-aged couple sitting on a bench, holding hands but each looking the other way - cheating? a marriage about to end? But no, they exchange a quick look, the woman’s eyes are shining with tears - a son or daughter in hospital maybe. The man in a suit, beginnings of a paunch, hair thinning but still dark, who does a little double-take when he meets your eyes. Aha. Closet gay? Or out, but looking for someone new?

The carriage jolts to a halt and you close your eyes, lean your head back. Ever since meeting Moriarty the world seems to have become more colourful, more real. Although other people are still frustratingly boring, compared to him.  He's mad, brilliant, completely unpredictable, unlike anyone you've ever met. For the first time ever you have absolutely no problem following someone else's lead, especially because the orders he gives you, the work you do for him... Well, you love it. It's got all the excitement and violence of the army but without the stifling discipline, the monotomy.

You just wished he would  _share_ a bit more.

You get out at Gloucester Road, fully intending to go straight to the flat, but something makes you hesitate. You look down at the folder in your hands. One of the first things he told you was  _never look_ , but... Well. It’s not like he would know, is it?

You find the restroom and hide in a stall, one of the few places that’s guaranteed not to have cameras watching. You sit down on the lid - god, the  _stench_  - and flip the folder open. There are plans and blueprints inside. You don't know enough about engineering to make sense of it, but you do recognise the little symbol on top of the second page. Nuclear danger.

Bloody hell.

You stare at the door, reeling from the implications. You knew he was powerful, but to the level of trading nuclear weapons? That's beyond anything you imagined, that's  _supervillain_ stuff. You’re out of your fucking depth here.

You blink and shake it off. What are you going to do, tell the police? Or even better,  _run away_? He’d get you back in less than a day, and then, well, you’ve seen what happens with people who think they can outrun him.

You put the pages back in the exact order you found them in and get back out to the open air. It's still a ten minute walk to Moriarty's flat and you take the time to try and clear your head. This doesn't change anything, doesn't it? Not really. But it made your curiosity flare up again and you can't help speculating, wondering...

If only he would fucking  _tell_ you something. But no, irritation is going to get you nowhere. You close your eyes and bask in the sun, empty your mind. He can't see what you're thinking.

By the time you reach his building you've schooled your face back into your usual expression of polite indifference. You get inside the lift. He won’t know. You were careful not to leave any fingerprints, you put them back exactly as they were, you left no traces. He can’t -

A disgusting smell hits your nose, one that makes the public restrooms smell like roses in comparison. It’s almost enough to make you retch, and you're still gasping for clean air when you get to the fourth floor and enter the main flat.

Moriarty is sitting at the table, which is strewn with folders in several colours and three different notebooks. “You look  _green_ ,” he says interestedly, looking up from his papers. Irish accent again, he's been using that one a lot lately.

“What the fuck's happening on the third floor?”

“Oh, that, I almost forgot. I'm boiling a body.”

“You're – " You take a few moments to parse that sentence, making sure you haven't misunderstood him. Doesn't seem like it. “ _Why_?”

He clucks his tongue, with that impatient teacher-air that crops up every now and then. “This isn't Afghanistan, Moran," he says. "You can't just leave bodies around and expect people to congratulate you on it.”

“So you boil them?”

“Dissolve them, more accurately. He'll be a perfectly manageable puddle in a few hours.” He stretches, back arching, fingers entwined above his head. “So tell me, how did it go?”

“I've got what you wanted,” you say, waving the file.

“Put it on the counter.”

“And can I leave?”

“No you can't, did I say you can?” he snaps. “You can  _wait_.”

You lean against the back of the couch and cross your arms, watching him flip through pages and jot down things in a notebook. No point in trying to sneak a peek at what he's writing, he always writes in code.

He closes the notebook with a tired sigh and goes to look at the file, giving you a pat on the shoulder as he passes you. You look down at your feet.

“Did he protest?” he asks, leafing through the pages.

“Yeah.” You close your eyes. “He was nervous, smoking like a chimney, nails bitten to the quick. He'd cut himself shaving, even.”

“He always was the jittery type." He closes the file and leans on the counter. “I need you to pick up something from Heathrow next, you can take the car if you want.”

“No, it's fine, I like public transport.”

He throws you a look. “You and literally no one else,” he says. “The man'll recognise you and hand you a briefcase. Nothing terribly illegal but I wouldn't want to be caught with it if I were you, so try to avoid the police.”

“Got it. Now can I leave?”

“Yes, off you get.”

You push off the couch.

“Oh, and Moran?”

You freeze, because that sounded much too casual. You turn around slowly, heart beating at double speed. His face is dead serious, and all you can think is  _oh fuck_. “Sir?’

He stares hard at you. “Go nosing around my files again without my  _explicit permission_ , and it'll be you dissolving in a bath of acid, only I won't do you the kindness of killing you beforehand. Understood?”

You try to swallow and fail, and give a little speechless nod.

“Good,” he says. “Go on then, I don't pay you to loiter.”

But you are who you are, never know when to  _stop_ , so you don't turn around but say, “Has it occurred to you that this might work better if you told me what it is I'm actually doing?”

He doesn't say anything for a few seconds. The stink from the third floor is starting to reach the penthouse. You've never seen someone dissolve in acid but you can't imagine it's very pleasant.

“It has  _occurred to me_ ,” he says, dripping with venom, “that letting people like  _you_  know my plans only ever ends in disaster. Keep your nose out of my business and do exactly as I tell you to, and you might,  _might_ , survive for a few more years. Now get out, before I change my mind and kill you anyway.”

You leave, feeling like you just jumped off a cliff and against all expectations managed to hit the water instead of the ground.

***

You hear nothing from him for the next few weeks. It’s increasingly worrying, and by mid-September you’re so worked up that you’re seriously considering going to Knightsbridge yourself, without invitation. But then the assignments start coming.

And the problem is, they don’t  _stop_. Your workload almost triples. It could be a sign of trust but it feels more like he's giving you more opportunities to slip up, to make that one fatal mistake which will justify your execution.

But you don't.

He sends you all over the country, a delivery here, an assassination there, picking up more of those bloody documents, briefcases far too heavy to contain only papers, little black boxes the size of your palm. The temptation to look gets a little harder to resist every time, but all it takes for you to behave is to remember that look in Moriarty’s eyes last time you got curious.

October passes in a confused jumble of train journeys and cars and several break-ins. You spend two weeks in fucking  _Hull_ , something to do with the harbour and trafficking and shipments being transported to safehouses. When it’s finished you’re dying to go back to London, but there’s another call, another job, and before you know it you’re in Cardiff, blackmailing some government official into giving you the plans for a new housing project.

“Got them,” you say over the phone. “Why do you need to know about houses, anyway?”

“What did I tell you about your nose and my business?’ he says smoothly.

“Right, sorry, consider my nose retracted. Can I go - "

“How do you like Blackpool?”

“I don’t.”

He laughs. “Pity, cause that’s where you’re going next.”

And off you go again. After Blackpool - gambling debts and money laundering - it’s a kidnapping in Bristol, picking up a briefcase in Birmingham and delivering it to someone in Newcastle, and then all the way back to Cardiff again.

You try to catch up on sleep on trains, in hotels, but it’s been over three months of continuous work without a single moment to relax and you're starting to feel really, properly tired, the sort of tired that can't be solved with an occasional nap.

“How much longer do you want me to keep doing this?” you ask Moriarty on the phone, the next time he checks in.

“Getting too much for you to handle, is it?”

And of course you can't say  _yes_  to that, so it's Glasgow next, breaking into the flat of an adviser to the MOD. Your concentration is starting to suffer, your hand is not as steady as it usually is, and this is going to end badly but you're a stubborn bastard at the best of times and you refuse to give up now.

New Year comes and passes. You hardly notice it, too busy with infiltrating a military base.

Mid-January the weather turns briefly  _insane_. Public transport is fucked and you manage to catch up on sleep in a little hotel in Bath, which was a necessity, you were starting to hear things that weren’t really there. Not that you get much sleep, though, the storm has damaged the nearby electricity pylons and as a consequence the room is ice cold, and no amount of blankets can really solve that problem.

“How are you doing?’ Moriarty asks the day after.

You squash the phone between your ear and your shoulder. “I couldn’t shower this morning because the water had frozen in the pipes,” you say, staring at the ceiling, still huddled beneath the blankets.

“Lovely. Rent a car and come back to London.”

You perk up. “You mean I can take a break?"

“Hardly. You’ve rested now, haven’t you? Anyway, there are four people here who’ve been a bit naughty. I need you to kill them and make it look like suicide. Think you can manage?”

It could just be your imagination, but it sounds like he’s mocking you, the sadistic arsehole. “I can manage,” you say from between gritted teeth.

You almost cause an accident on the M25, falling asleep behind the wheel and skidding on a patch of ice. It’s gone beyond exhaustion, this is  _torture_.

You only have time to drop your bags in your flat before you’re back in the car. Four people, spread across London, another four deaths, dragging bodies around and double-checking every last detail. By the time the last one is finished you've been awake for almost forty hours straight, tripping over your feet, seeing spots.

You almost don't make it back to your flat. Once inside it's tempting to simply collapse on the floor, but you somehow manage to drag yourself to the bedroom, and then your phone starts ringing. It actually takes you a while to realise the source of the sound, and then another few seconds to pull the phone out with clumsy fingers.

 _JM_ , the screen announces, and by now you know exactly how suicidal it is to ignore him. On the other hand, you literally cannot walk more than a few paces without swaying.

You reject the call, turn the phone off, and sit down on the bed. You strip as quickly as you can and crawl naked under the blankets.

Two seconds later you're asleep.

***

_Threat._

You keep your eyes carefully closed. Something’s off, something’s wrong. You try to kick your brain into gear.

Subtle noises of cloth shifting, of skin against wood; there's someone else in the room. A burglar? Poor bastard bit off a bit more than he can chew. You turn, pretending to be still asleep, and casually burrow your hand beneath the left pillow, where you keep your Beretta. It isn’t there. Did you -

“I know you're awake.”

Shit. Your eyes snap open. You  _are_  still alive, but with Moriarty, that doesn't mean anything.

“I take it you found the one in the kitchen cupboard too?” you say, voice rough with sleep.

“And the one in the bathroom," Moriarty says, his voice as smooth and controlled as always. "You do keep yourself well equipped, don't you?”

“I try.” You need to think quickly, now. He has every weapon in the house, add to that the fact that you're still incredibly stiff from yesterday's job, your chances are slim. Although this is your flat, so you've got the advantage of familiar terrain, unless -

 _There is no point in this._ No point in trying to outsmart Moriarty, you of all people should realise that. Whatever you can think of, he'll have thought of first.

Which makes things considerably less complicated. You roll over and sit up, blankets pooling around your waist. Moriarty is sitting in your favourite – and only – chair, repositioned so it's in the middle of the bedroom, with a perfect view of the bed, the Beretta pointed loosely at you, the other two guns at his feet.

“How long have you been watching me exactly?” you ask with a raised eyebrow. Moriarty doesn't react immediately, which you're starting to recognise as his way of showing surprise.

“A while.” He leans forward. “I don’t  _like_ it when people disobey me, Sebastian. I thought you knew that.”

“Last night I would've been as much use to you as a twelve-year old schoolgirl with a water gun,” you say, rubbing your eyes. “If you don't want to be disobeyed, don't give me impossible orders.”

He cocks his head, studying you. “I could kill you now, you know. I've killed for far less.”

You shrug. “Do it then. The police don’t come here easily, so you can probably get away with a gunshot. Clean-up would be a chore, though.”

He stares at you. So used to people cowering for him he doesn’t know what to do with someone who talks back. But if he wants you dead you’re dead, begging or not, and you’re not the cowering sort, not even for him.

“You're a strange duck, Sebastian Moran," he says softly.

"Am I?"

He stands up and walks slowly to the edge of the bed. His finger is resting on the trigger, not the the grip. Ready to kill. He stops right in front of you and puts the muzzle of the gun beneath your jaw, and you obediently tilt your head back. 

“Next time you disagree with me, tell me, will you?” he says, muzzle caressing your jaw.

“If you promise not to disembowel me for speaking out of turn." Your breath is coming a little faster but apart from that you feel calm. Despite the fact that he's  _holding a loaded gun against your throat_ , but no, nothing, just a strange relaxed peace.

“Promise? No, don't think I will, actually.” He grins, a quick flash of white teeth. “Keeps things more interesting that way, don't you agree?”

You lock eyes with him, acutely aware of the cold metal against your throat. “I,” you say steadily, “am going to take a shower. If you don't mind, that is. And then you can tell me what it is you want me to do now.”

He steps back and puts your gun on the nightstand. You swing your legs from the bed and cross the room. You've spent too much of your life in communal bathrooms to feel any shame or awkwardness about being naked in front of others, but there's something about the way his eyes follow you that makes you just the tiniest bit uneasy.

You stop with your hand on the bathroom door and look over your shoulder at him. “By the way,” you say, and he raises his eyebrows. “How the hell did you get here, looking like  _that_ , without being mugged?”

He looks down at his suit, the shiny shoes, the expensive coat. “They're not completely stupid, that little gang.” He grins wide, and you can see what he means. He looks terrifying. “Go on, don't waste time. Work to do.”

You step inside the bathroom, close the door and lean against it. You can hear him walk around the main room, probably examining the few things you have lying around, your wardrobe. 

You push off and get into the shower. Much to your surprise the water is actually warm for once, and you close your eyes, tilt your head back into the stream. Your fingers drift to the spot where the gun touched your throat.

After three thoughtful seconds you turn the temperature to  _freezing_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the wait, dear readers. Chapter 4 (affectionately known as The Big Chapter of Sexual Frustration) will be up next Wednesday. Hope you enjoyed it!
> 
>  **Bosch** : Hieronymus Bosch is a medieval artist who painted some really weird scenes. Some of his paintings feature a small plant that looks like hemp, which gave life to the theory that some of his paintings were literally made on drugs.
> 
>  **Translation of French bits:**  
>  \- He doesn't understand?  
> \- Apparently not. The Spider has sent us an idiot.  
> \- Perfect. It won't be difficult to convince him, the fuckhead.  
> \- He's a real arsehole, that one.  
> \- Tell him to go fuck himself.
> 
> I'll leave _éspèce de merdeux de con d'Anglais_ to the imagination.


	4. The Dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which Sebastian’s Boss Is A Merciless Cocktease (AKA The Big Chapter Of Sexual Frustration)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you may or may not have guessed based on the summary: this is were things get porny. If you're not fond of explicit sex, this is the point where you should abandon ship.
> 
> Warnings and contents: graphic violence, UST, explicit m/m sex, voyeurism, bondage, knifeplay, creative use of cigarettes, D/s dynamics, mention of torture, dubious consent (BDSM-heavy sex without prior negotiation or safewords)

**4\. The Dance**

_It's only just a crush it'll go away_  
 _It's just like all the others it'll go away_  
 _Or maybe this is danger and you just don't know_  
 _You pray it all away but it continues to grow_ _  
__(Tear You Apart - She Wants Revenge)_

Knightsbridge never stops being irritating to you. The entitlement, the privilege, the ostentatiousness... Usually it leaves you with an urge to burn it all down, but sometimes it simply brings out the vandal in you. There are more fancy cars here than in an average episode of Top Gear, and you are  _itching_  to get your keys out and do some damage to those expensive paint jobs, or break a few rear-view mirrors. Childish, but it would be so rewarding.

You doubt Moriarty would approve, though.

You give a little wave at the security camera and the door buzzes. He doesn't have a doorbell, for some reason. You didn't ask.

Upstairs the door is open, but Moriarty himself isn’t around. There’s a black briefcase on the table, a bit larger than the usual ones. You pull your glove off and run your fingers over the black leather.

“I heard you were good with a sniper rifle.”

You whirl around. Moriarty is leaning against the wall next to the door, hands in his pockets. He nods at the case. “It's an L115, should be familiar.”

You flip the case open and get a little jolt of nostalgia. It’s familiar, alright, you spent a lot of time lying around with one of those resting against your cheek. Although.... “It's been modified.”

He pushes off the wall and strolls closer. “Yes, I took the barrel off and made it removable, it's easier to carry it around like that.”

“Yeah, but you – ” You pause as your brain catches up with his words. “Sorry,  _you_  made it removable?”

He widens his eyes at you. “Well, yes, I'm a bit of amateur-engineer. You were saying?”

“What?” you say, blinking. You know he experiments with...  _things_ , but weapons is a first. “Oh, yes. You lose the zero, unless you know what you're doing, and even then you - ”

“Are you suggesting I don't know what I'm doing?” he asks casually.

You shrug, unfazed. “No-o, I'm just saying it's bloody difficult to do right and I don't want it to explode in my face.”

“It won't. If I wanted you dead I'd have it done in a neater way.” He grins. “Although it would be funny.”

“And that’s supposed to be reassuring, is it?” you say wryly.

“Not really, no.” He leans against the table and watches your hands.

As always, him being this close _does_ something to you. You fumble with the scope and almost drop the barrel. He doesn’t comment, though, just watches with a small smile.

The parts screw in smoothly enough. You raise it to your shoulder and look down the scope, an action so familiar it makes something ache inside of you.

Moriarty wolf-whistles.

“It'll do,” you decide, and start taking it apart again, your hands a little steadier.

“Good. Hurry up then, I'm getting tired of waiting.” He pushes off and briefly touches your shoulder. You keep your eyes resolutely on the rifle. Once the parts are all back in the case you look up to see Moriarty put on his coat.

“You're coming along?” you ask, surprised. He doesn’t, as a rule, not for this kind of thing. You thought that was the reason he had you, to do the dirty work for him so he could stay inside his flat, out of reach.

“Well, yes, I want to see it done. I've never seen a sniper-kill before.” He sounds almost wistful.

“It's – it's nothing special, sitting around and waiting, mostly. You'll be bored out of your mind.”

He loops his scarf around his neck. “I'm starting to think you don't want me around. Are you telling me what to do, now?”

Another little jab, as if he’s testing if you’re still awake. “Of course I’m not.”

“Of course you’re not,” he echoes. “Coming?”

You take the case and follow him out of the door.

***

He sits in the front seat in the car, next to you, instead of safe and distant in the back. You put your gloves back on, glance at him. He's looking down, eyes distant, lost in thought.

“So where are we going?” you ask, starting the car.

He blinks and comes back to earth. “Canary Wharf," he says, bending down and pulling out a sheaf of paper from beneath the seat.

“Isn’t that a bit in the open?” you say. “I mean, a sniper rifle is pretty efficient but it isn’t exactly subtle.”

“It’s not _meant_ to be subtle, it’s supposed to send a message,” he says absently, looking through his papers.

“Well, as long as you’re aware that it’s going to be a _loud_ message.”

“You think I don’t know that?”

“No, I just... ” You fall silent.

A businessman shot right in the light of day, in a public space, with a goddamn sniper rifle. The _arrogance_ of him, it’s unbelievable. Although is it still arrogance when he has proven, over and over again, that he really can pull it all off?

He makes a quiet noise. You glance aside and see a drop of blood on his index finger, where he must have cut himself on the paper. He raises it to his mouth, licks the drop off and slips his finger between his lips, sucking gently.

A car horn blares and you yank the wheel just in time to avoid hitting another car.

He pulls his finger from his mouth with a quiet _pop_. “Eyes on the road, Sebastian,” he says calmly.

“Yeah, sorry.”

Don’t think about it. Don’t think about his mouth, or his hands, or the fact that there's nothing but a few inches separating you from him.

You manage to concentrate on traffic for the rest of the drive, until you have to stop in front of a traffic light and once again your eyes are drawn to Moriarty. You can’t help it, it’s like he’s fucking _magnetic_.

He’s still flipping through his pages with quick efficient movements. His sleeve has ridden up a little, revealing the pale inside of his wrist, blue veins visible beneath the thin skin. His watch has left an indent, a dark pink line.

A horn sounds again and you shift into gear, drive on, staring ahead.

“Bit distracted?” Moriarty asks innocently.

“Just a bit. How far is it?”

“Next left, the office building. There’s a car park.”

You find a spot and turn the engine off, get out and open the door for him. He steps out and looks up at the skyscraper in front of him. “Alright then, let’s get _cracking_ ,” he says, grinning.

He leads you up to an abandoned office on the ninth floor and points at a window looking out at the offices in the skyscraper opposite. You set up, positioning the tripod, putting the rifle together, moving with almost no conscious thought. It's been three years since you last did this, but muscle memory is an amazing thing.

When you're done, Moriarty comes over to stand behind you. He throws his arms loosely around your neck and rests his chin on the top of your head, chest leaning against your shoulders, his arm pressed into the side of your throat. You grit your teeth.

It would be wrong to say Moriarty doesn't know the meaning of the words personal space, 'cause he does. He took  _personal space_  and tore it to pieces and set it on fire, dancing gleefully in the ashes. The man would crawl inside your skin if he could.

It’s a new thing. True, he’s been handsy from the start, but ever since - since whatever that thing in your flat was, he seems to have upped the intensity. He leads you around by your arm, pushes you in place with a hand between your shoulder blades, leans in close enough to brush his mouth against your ear when he gives you instructions. More than once you’ve been tempted to tell him to fuck off, but although you can get away with a lot these days, there are limits.

He disentangles from you with one last pat on your shoulder and saunters over to the other side of the room. You breathe out in relief.

You could have handled if it hadn’t been for this, this _thing_ you feel. 'Cause yeah, you’ve been interested in him from the first time you saw him, in a vague, generalised sort of way, but it’s only got worse over the last few months. And all the touching and the leering _really_ doesn’t help. You’ve been slowly losing control, dreaming of him practically every fucking night, thinking up increasingly pornographic scenarios with Moriarty as the enthusiastic protagonist whenever you have to lie in wait for an extended period of time, even though you _know_ that's a bad idea.

Because it's not like you can do anything about it. You can't imagine  _hey boss, fancy a quick shag?_  going down well in any shape or size.

"So, which do you prefer then?” Moriarty asks, out of nowhere.

You look up from the scope. “Sorry?”

“Whom do you like to fuck?”

The rifle nearly slips from your hand. Does he know what you were thinking about? Did you accidentally talk out loud or something? “I don’t – ”

“Men or women,” he says, clarifying. “Boys or girls.”

Oh. You lean back, considering your answer. “I don't see,” you say slowly, “how my sexual preferences are of any relevance to you.”

Moriarty smiles delicately. “Don't you?”

The rifle slips again.

“And that wasn't an answer, by the way,” he continues. His eyes are glittering, the way they only usually do when he’s watching someone squirm. Which is wholly appropriate right now, of course.

You rest the rifle on the tripod and run your gloved hand through your hair. “Both, neither, I don't know. It depends. But men are easier, generally. What about – ” You skid to a halt just in time.

Moriarty raises his eyebrows. “Yes?”

“Never mind.”

 _What about you_. Moriarty’s sexuality is a big fucking question mark. Gay or straight, both or neither, you have no clue. It isn’t just you, he’ll flirt with anyone regardless of gender, but as far as you can tell he never actually follows through on any of it. It’s just another intimidation technique, because it’s unexpected, because it makes people uneasy. It’s a  _weapon_.

And if he does have a sex life, he's really fucking discreet about it. There are no rumours of lovers, no traces of other people in his flat, no used condoms in the bin - and yeah, you checked, curiosity can drive you to some lengths. So either he’s hiding it, which would be entirely true to character, or maybe... Well, maybe the great James Moriarty simply doesn’t do something as pedestrian as  _have sex._

“Wake up, Moran, our target's there,” he snaps at you. You pull your right glove off with your teeth and put your earplugs in, and fall back into that specific mindspace you need for sniping, senses both heightened and constrained.

You can see the man come through the door. It isn't that great a distance, you can easily aim at his head. The apricot. Destroy the medulla oblongata, sever his spinal cord, a one-shot kill. You can hardly remember the last time you did this, in Afghanistan the targets were usually too far away to attempt anything but a body shot.

Everything else sort of fades, focus narrowed to the circle of your scope and your own heartbeat, until all you’re aware of is the man in the room opposite. You can see every detail, the cut of his jacket, the ring on his finger, the comb-over.  You can almost see him breathe.

One breath, two, hold the third...

You pull the trigger. It’s a perfect shot, and his tiny distant head explodes in a gory mess.

Satisfaction hits you hard, as always, nothing quite like the feeling of hitting your target. You pull the earplugs out - Moriarty is cackling in the background, the lunatic - and try to shake off that sharp over-focused state of mind. It's always a bit disorienting, coming down after a shot like that. 

You start taking apart the rifle and leave Moriarty to his insanity. 

“Gosh, that was fun, wasn't that fun?” he breathes after a while. You close the briefcase with an audible click. “Honestly, I don't know why you left the army, if you got to do  _that_  all day.”

“Mainly because they  _wouldn't_  let me do that all day.”

He wipes the tears from his eyes. “Humourless bunch. Anyway, the rifle didn't explode! That's a relief, isn't it?”

You whirl around. “You said - ”

“I say a lot of things, doesn't mean they're true.” And when he sees your expression, he adds, “Oh, don't look so scared, I was almost entirely sure it was safe. And what's life without a little risk, hm?” He turns on his heel and snaps his fingers. “Come on, I'll drop you off at that hole you call home, or somewhere quite close anyway, I'm not going near the estates again unless I absolutely have to.”

You follow, down the corridor to the lift. Tests, they’re all just tests, and you won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing you fail. “So I take it the experience lived up to your expectations?” you ask, just to show him you’re not rattled.

“Oh, quite. I think I may have a new hobby,” he says, getting into the lift.

The doors close. “What, watching me kill people?”

He laughs. “Basically, yes. You do look ravishing when you’re on the hunt, dear boy.”

The lift pings and you get out. Just a test. It isn’t personal, he doesn’t mean it, he’s just trying to get you to blush. You have no chance in hell of getting into his pants.

“Glad to be of service,” you say, and go to the car, sirens sounding in the background.

***

_Moran, he would say, giving that extra little twist to your name, his hands tight around your wrists, holding you down._

_Moran, he would say, did you really think I didn’t know? with that dangerous smile that always sends your heart racing. His hips pressing against yours, cocks rubbing together, and he’d let go and you’d flip him around, reach down and -_

“Moran! Stop admiring the window displays and _do your job._  The target’s moving, don’t lose her.”

“Yes sir,” you say in the headset, although you almost want to cry in frustration. If you can’t even get off in your daydreams, that’s going too far.

You put your hands in your pockets and stroll after your mark, nicely inconspicuous. It’s another boring routine job, you can shadow people in your sleep. And you can’t help the way your mind drifts off when you’ve got nothing better to do.

The Moriarty of your imagination is an unbelievably good fuck, who takes control without a second thought and knows exactly what you like. Imaginary-Moriarty laughs a lot, pins you down and takes what he wants, or is languorous and slow and thorough, but he always leaves you satisfied.

“ _Moran_. I don’t pay you to sleepwalk, keep up.”

Completely the opposite of the real one.

***

“Well?” he says when you step into his flat. Arms crossed, mouth thin, obviously irritated. His hair is still a bit wet, he must have just come from the shower. “You almost lost her. What’s your excuse?”

“Tired. Haven’t been sleeping well.” Which is the truth, more or less. You've been spending as little time as possible in your bed, because either you lie awake and get lost in fantasy, or you fall asleep and have to wade your way through increasingly disturbing dreams. “And anyway, I got the job done, didn’t I?”

He smiles. “You think you’d be standing here if you _hadn’t_?” He nods at the carpet. “Go on then, report.”

You take up position in the middle of the living room, arms behind your back. “Small house, with a – ”

“Eyes _closed_ , Moran.”

“Why?” you snap.

“Visual memory works better if there are no distractions. Stop arguing.”

You close your eyes, go through the memory of the woman’s safehouse. “Both adjacent houses are inhabited, one a family with two young kids, other an elderly couple. Chain on the inside of the door, two locks…” You walk him through your memory of the place, giving him every detail you can remember. He’s circling you, you can hear moving around, and it’s distracting as hell.

“… and a small window in the attic, mostly rusted shut.”

“And that’s it?”

“No, I’m deliberately holding back things to see you get snippy,” you sneer.

You can feel him stop in front of you. It takes a lot of effort not to move, to keep your eyes closed.

“You’ve been very impertinent lately, Sebastian,” he says thoughtfully.

“If you wanted someone who cringes every time you raise your voice you should’ve hired someone else.”

You open your eyes. He’s closer than you expected.

“Sir,” you add, much too late.

He narrows his eyes and for a second it's _incredibly_ hard not to try and close the distance in some way, but then he turns and strolls to the window. “There’s a thin line between impertinence and disrespect, Sebastian, and you’ve been toeing it.” He looks over his shoulder. “Don’t cross it.”

“Or what?”  

“Do you need me to spell it out for you?” he asks, but there’s an undercurrent of surprise in his voice.

For a second you’re tempted to say _yes_ , but then you shake your head. “No, I can imagine.”

He stares at you for a few seconds, and then he points to his bathroom. “Go clean up. I need you at the Ritz next.”

You give him a mocking salute and go to his bathroom to wash your hands at his shiny marble sink.

You don’t know where it’s coming from, this need to _push_. It didn’t used to be like this, you used to be just fine with Moriarty ordering you around. And he’s made it perfectly clear he doesn’t tolerate disobedience; you wake up sometimes still feeling the ghost-touch of a gun against your throat.

And yet here you are, mouthing off at him, desperate for – for something. Some kind of reaction, a small fracture in his constant damn composure.

You scrub the last of the dirt and grease and blood from your hands and look around. There’s a wet rumpled towel lying nearby, the only untidy touch in an otherwise spotless perfect room.

You take it. Pause. Stare down at it.

And, feeling like a massive pervert, you raise it to your face and inhale. Shampoo and wet cotton and beneath that the unmistakable scent of –

You throw it away in disgust and run your hands over your face. Jesus fucking _Christ_ , what’s happening to you?

A cough. You slide your hands off. Moriarty is standing in the doorway, fuck knows how long he’s been there, how much he’s seen.

“Are you done?” he asks, with no inflection at all.

“I’m _done_ ,” you say, and go to the living room. He doesn’t step aside and you have to brush past him to get through the doorway, his shoulder hitting your arm. The contact sends something like an electric shock through you, and you curl your hand into a fist.

Well, you know how you’re going to spend your evening tonight.

***

The dance floor is packed, one great big writhing mass of sweating humanity, swaying in time to the beat. In general you prefer pubs or smaller, more private clubs, but occasionally the need for something like this rears its head. It's either this or a bloody, violent, near-impossible fight, but you suspect Moriarty wouldn't be very happy with the latter. And they’re pretty hard to come by anyway, you tend to  _win_ most of the fights you get into.

You step on the dance floor and before long you're in the middle of the floor, surrounded on all sides by swaying bodies, undulating hips, grasping hands. You close your eyes and let the music wash away your thoughts, allow yourself to be drawn into this trance-like state, where nothing matters but the rhythmic movement, the constant body contact. Someone bumps into you, someone else grabs at your arse, and you throw your head back and lose yourself to it all, mind blessedly empty for once.

But it can only last so long before it becomes too much, and by the time you get out of the throng you're overstimulated, wired. You head to the quieter part of the club and drop down on an empty couch, leaning your head against the wall and closing your eyes.

When you open them again, there’s someone checking you out. Big bloke, your height or taller, short blond hair, broad-shouldered and buff but starting to go to seed. He’s holding his arm a little awkwardly - fight? sports injury, more likely. He’s got a tattoo, half covered by his sleeve, too unclear to see the shape; his trainers are old, worn, but -

Wait, no. He’s just a hook-up, not a mark, not a threat. No need to analyse.

You raise your glass in a silent toast and he comes over, looking a little nervous. It's nothing new, most people who approach you are a bit uneasy at first. Apparently you look  _intimidating_.

“Shaun,” he shouts next to your ear, 'cause even here the music is unbelievably loud.

“Sebastian,” you shout back, and that's about as much pleasantries as you can manage, still riding the high from the dance floor. “Wanna go outside?”

He nods. You take his wrist and drag him to the back door, making sure not to squeeze too hard. More than one time someone has buggered off at the last moment because you were getting too  _intense._

The cool air outside hits you like a punch, and you probably should’ve gone back for your coat but you have no intentions of drawing this out anyway. By an amazing stroke of luck the alley behind the club is empty – nothing like a vomiting drunk to kill the mood – so you push Shaun against the wall and pull a condom from your back pocket.

“You don’t have to – ”

“Don’t be a fucking idiot,” you snap. You drop to your knees in one fluid motion, get his jeans open and his pants pulled down and roll the condom on.

“No time wasted,” Shaun says, sounding a little overwhelmed.

“I’m eager.” You swallow around him and his stupid comments get replaced by loud moans.

Two seconds later your jeans pocket starts buzzing. You lean back, ignoring the moan of protest, and dig out your phone.  _JM_ , the screen says, and you open the message without a second of hesitation. Even here, even now, you'd drop everything and come if he called, pun very much intended.

But it isn't a summons. Three black letters shine back at you.  _I C U_.

You look around, half expecting to see him standing in the shadows, but no, you checked, there was no one, so how...

The CCTV camera.

“Is something wrong?” Shaun asks from above your head, sounding a bit unnerved. Not surprising, you're not exactly acting  _normal_  here.

You grin at the camera and turn back to the job at hand, take his hip and hollow out your cheeks. You make it as filthy as you can, using every trick you picked up over the years, complete with little moans and noises. Poor Shaun – or lucky Shaun, depends how you look at it – doesn't last more than a minute or two, coming with a loud groan. You lean back and pull the condom off, feeling very pleased with yourself.

Shaun grabs your elbow and you just manage to curb your impulse to hit back. He tugs you upright, twisting you so you end up with your back against the wall. Your eyes flick back to the security camera, and then to the face in front of you.

“You don't have to – " you start.

He shakes his head. “Mate, I really owe you one,” he says, and goes to his knees with considerably less grace than you did. “Condom?”

“Er… back pocket.”

He fumbles for your pockets and you look back again at the camera. You shouldn't be doing this. It's too dangerous, playing with fire. Toeing the line again. But _f_ _uck_ Moriarty and his fucking games.

You put your hand on Shaun's neck and push him down a little. “You really are eager, aren't you?” Shaun says, grinning.

“Yeah.” Idiot. Nevertheless, it's been a while and you can't contain your moan as his fist closes around your cock.

You twist your hand in his hair, the other pressed hard against the rough brick of the wall. The camera is still pointed straight at you, he’s  _watching_. You close your eyes. A hot wet mouth closes around you and you allow your imagination to take over, pretending his hair isn’t blond but dark and slicked back, getting messed up under your fingers. Not jeans and a too-tight t-shirt but a stylish suit, knees getting stained on the dirty ground, and if you’d open your eyes he’d be looking up at you, dark eyes amused and superior and  _knowing_.

You come in an embarrassingly short time.

Shaun stands up with a smug smile.  _Credit's not yours, mate_ , but you keep silent, still a bit unsteady on your feet.

The guy holds something out to you. “My number. Call me sometime, will you?”

“Yeah, sure,” you mutter, watching him leave. Your eyes go slowly back to the camera, still pointed unmoving in your direction. You can just about imagine Moriarty sitting behind his laptop, studying you, probably critiquing your technique.

 _Pervert_ , you mouth, and give it the finger.

***

It disturbs you more than it should, really. Moriarty is a stalker, you've known that from the start. The thought of him spying on you is one you've grown used to, and in retrospect it was probably naïve to assume he'd allow you any privacy. He’s a control freak, of course he would want to know what you get up to in your free time.

But that means he could have been playing peeping tom from the start, and you spend the entire night lying awake, mentally going over all your latest hook-ups, trying to remember if there were cameras near. Not that you’re embarrassed, or that you’ve got anything to be ashamed of or anything, but...

Well. Sexually liberated you may be, you’ve never had any particular love for exhibitionism.

So when you go to the flat the day after and knock on the door, you’re more than a bit on edge.

“Come in,” he calls out. He’s stretched out on the sofa, ankles crossed, hands folded behind his head. As you come in he swings his legs to the floor and fishes a file from between the cushions. “You’re going to Downing Street again today. I’ve got the details here somewhere…”

You watch him flips through the pages. “So, er, about last night…” you start.

He looks up and stares at you, and the little resolve you managed to gather collapses.

“Anything you want to say?” he says, face carefully serious, and he’s laughing at you, you’re sure of it.

“No,” you say coolly, and turn your eyes to the window, staring ahead. Awaiting orders. He goes back to his papers, pretending nothing happened.

It could just be another test, another part of the game, but... Jesus, the man is watching you  _fuck_ , that’s going beyond intimidation, that’s just plain voyeurism. He must get something out of this as well, mustn’t he? Maybe you do have a chance of getting inside of his -

No. You can’t even think about that, that way madness lies. It’s all just a game to him, and to be honest? You’re getting really fucking  _sick_  of it.

***

You don’t go out again. It’s irritating, because the idea of letting Moriarty dictate your sex life goes against the very depths of your rebellious soul, but the idea of fucking someone with him watching… It’s not something you want to deal with.

But a side-effect is a mounting frustration. Wanking can only get you so far, especially when your mind seems determined to sabotage you by throwing Moriarty into whatever fantasy you manage to think of.

Obsession, that's what this is. And fuck knows where it's going to lead to, because you can't see how this can possibly end well.

***

The church tolls eleven and you walk into Moriarty’s flat with two bags of... stuff. Highly illegal stuff, apparently. You didn't ask, didn't dare to. 

“Where do you want them?" you ask.

“Table,” he says curtly.

He’s been changeable all week, switching between something that you can only think of as  _cockteasing_ and being standoffish and distant. It’s... difficult, you feel like you’re on unsteady ground, constantly needing to readjust, and it’s left you with a pressing urge to  _vent_. 

You drop the bags on the table. Maybe you should go out after all, Moriarty's voyeuristic tendencies be damned. It’s Friday night, so it shouldn’t be that difficult to find someone willing. Preferably someone female, and light-haired, and tall and curvy. Someone who looks as little like Moriarty as is humanly possible, because dear  _god_ has he been messing with your libido. It’s come to the point where every time you're near him you either want to punch him in the face or kiss him until he’s choking, which isn't exactly a very healthy state of mind to be in around your  _employer_.

 _“_ If that's all for today, I'm going out,” you announce, turning to leave. A good fuck, a full eight hours of sleep, and hopefully he’ll be a bit less aggravating tomorrow. You reach for the door.

“I don't think so-o,” he sings.

Your hand freezes halfway to the doorknob. “Sorry?”

“You heard me. Be a good boy, go back to your little flat and sleep it off, I can't have you hungover in the morning.”

And something inside you just  _snaps_.

You whirl around. “ _Look_ ,” you grind out, furious, and Moriarty’s eyes go wide in surprise. “I do whatever you ask me to, every single fucking thing, no questions asked, but you can't just order me around like that when it comes to my  _fucking_  private life.”

“I  _can't_ , can I?” he says, narrowing his eyes. You recognise that look in his eyes, half gleeful, half furious. It tends to show up just before someone dies gruesomely.

It doesn't stop you. “I just work for you, I’m not your fucking  _slave_.”

He crosses the room in three quick strides, grabs you by your shirt and slams you against the wall. It comes out of fucking nowhere, 'cause you've never seen him fight, never seen him do anything remotely physical, and the little bastard is  _quick_.

“Let's get this straight,” he hisses, face less than an inch from yours. “I can order you to do whatever I want. I.  _Own_. You.” He's standing close enough that you can smell his aftershave, see the stubble on his jaw, a tiny nick where he's cut himself shaving. His knuckles are pressing hard against your collarbones and you're shaking, heart beating wildly. You can’t think, can’t -

“I  _own_ you, all of you, you’re  _mine_ , and if I tell you to go straight home you damn well better - ”

You grab his face and pull him in to close the last distance. Your teeth hit his, and one of his hands lets go and finds your hair, twisting but not pulling you off.  You open up beneath the thrust of his tongue, tasting blood, not sure if it's yours or his, and you haven't been this desperately hard since you were a teenager.

He breaks off suddenly and leans back, hand still in your hair.

You stare at him, shocked. Kissing him. Fucking _kissing_ him, what the _fuck_  were you thinking, you might as well have handed him a knife handle-first because you sure as hell can’t see Moriarty forgiving a transgression like this one.

The hand in your hair slides down and around, until his fingers encircle your throat, not squeezing but holding. Your breath hitches anyway. He’s still peering at you, too close, his dark eyes flicking from your left eye to your right. Without looking away he fits his other hand against the bulge in your trousers and you can't suppress a moan, god,  _please_.

The hand around your throat tightens in warning and you bite your lip, desperate for him to do  _something_.

He curls his fingers a bit, then slides slowly upwards, first his palm, fingertips trailing gently after. He finds the button on your trousers, flicks it open and pulls the zip down almost agonisingly slowly, and then his hand is inside your pants and your head hits the wall with a thump. This isn’t happening, this can’t be happening, this is something straight out of your fantasies, this _can’t be real_.

He steps even closer, fitting himself against you, other hand going back to your nape, and  _fuck_ , you've been wanting this for  _months_  and the sheer physical presence of him against you is almost too much. You scrabble ineffectively at his shoulders, trying to pull him even closer. He mouths along your jaw, finds a sensitive place just above the jugular and he bites down, not just a nip, an actual honest-to-god  _bite_ , the _insane pasty Irish vampire_ , and between the flare of pain and the friction of his hand and the warmth of his body plastered against yours, it's a matter of seconds. You bite down on your tongue to keep the sound down as you come, and everything sort of whites out.

He steps back, and your knees give out. You slide down the wall like a puppet with its strings cut.

“My,” he says after a moment, and you look up to see him clean his hand with his handkerchief. “We have been desperate, haven't we, Sebastian?” 

“I've been waiting for this for approximately eighteen months, can you blame me?" Your voice is hoarse. Your hands are trembling and there’s a spreading wet patch on your shirt, and it should be embarrassing but you’re far past caring. “As if you didn’t know.”

Silence. No witty comeback, no scathing remark.  You look up again to see his face, expression as close to serious as it gets. He's studying you. You let him look. He can have all he wants from you.

“You’ve been patient,” he says softly.

“I didn’t want to - didn’t know if...” You can’t find the right words, the way you watched and waited and doubted and seethed.

“And all this time you’ve been wanting.”

" _Yes_.” You look up at him, and then down, and any doubts you had that he didn’t get something out of this as well are promptly forgotten. “Speaking of needs going unfulfilled,” you say, and you give his crotch a meaningful look.

“Well, if you insist,” he says with a little roll of his eyes, and then he grabs you by the neck again and pushes your head between his thighs.

***

“How long have we got?" you ask.

Moriarty checks his watch. “Twenty minutes. Long enough, don’t you think?" He leans back against the wall, gives you a filthy smirk. You get a condom from your inside pocket and go down on your knees on the concrete floor.

Over the last few weeks you have become, by every possible definition of the word, his whore. Because that’s what this feels like, just another duty, part of the work. It wouldn’t even surprise you if he did pay you for this, a little extra for each orgasm you give him, but you’ve long stopped checking your bank account.

“What if they’re early?" you ask, unbuttoning his trousers.

“Then they’ll get a show, won’t they? So if you’re not keen on an audience, I suggest you hurry up.”

You pull his boxers down. He’s half-hard already, good, means this won’t have to take too long. You get to work.

It’s not like you don’t enjoy it. Watching Moriarty’s face as he comes, those precious few seconds when he drops all pretense and just  _lets go_  are deeply satisfying. Still, you had been hoping for something different. Something more.

Which is stupid. Sex is sex, doesn’t matter if it’s in a dirty back alley or a rose-strew bed, an all-night enactment of the Kama Sutra or over in less than five minutes. So what if all you’re allowed to do is to suck him off between jobs, so what if he hardly ever returns the favour, so what if -

He yanks at your hair. You look up and snap, "What?”

“Too hard.”

“Sorry.”

You should be satisfied, but you’re not. Somehow this only makes it worse, like feeding breadcrumbs to a starving man. It’s not like you want a declaration of love or anything, just him to treat you as something more than just a - a  _hole_ he can use whenever he feels like it.

He pushes in deeper. Good thing you’ve got your gag reflex under control.

And it isn’t just the sex, it’s everything. Alright, he lets you speak your mind, and occasionally he even listens to you, but you’re still kept out of the loop. One minute the two of you are discussing weapons or clients or the places you’ve been, almost like you’re friends, and the next he dismisses you without even a goodbye. Like you're a toy he can take out to play with when he wants to and put back in the box when he's bored of you. He just doesn’t let you close.

Which might be an ironic thing to say when you’ve got your nose in his pubic hair, but still. A year and a half in his employ, and you're still nothing to him. Calling you frustrated would be an understatement, it’s more like - like you’re only seconds away from doing something drastic, although what that would be you have no idea.

His fingers spasm against your scalp. You look up. It’s not like you need your concentration anyway, he’s setting the pace and the depth. Even when he’s fucking he has this constant need to be in control.

His usual supercilious expression melts away. He shuts his eyes tightly, bites his lip, mouths something you can't make out.

His fingers twitch again. Any second now...

His eyes fly open when he comes. He always looks surprised, shocked almost, as if orgasms never happen quite the way he expects them to. If you were the arrogant sort you’d say it’s because you’re just that good, but...

It does make you wonder. Who he’s had before you, how many, how often. He knows what he’s doing, that's become clear from the few times he's deigned to touch you. But there’s still something a little awkward about him, as if he’s relearning something he forgot a long time ago.

You roll the condom back and toss it in a corner, out of sight. You’re not the first people to use this place for a semi-public shag, there are a couple of used condoms already lying around. On the same level as horny teenagers and prostitutes, fucking  _great_.

A car pulls up outside. “Just in time,” you say, brushing the dust off your knees.

“Excellent timing, Sebastian.”

You look up and he reaches out, brushing his thumb over your mouth. “Got a little something there,” he says innocently, but before you can think of anything to say the clients come in.

You thought the games would be over. You couldn’t have been more wrong.

***

“Kick the door in.”

You look at Moriarty. “Seriously?”

“Yes, go on. Give me drama.”

You shrug and do as he says. The flimsy wood flies from the hinges, which should be all the  _drama_ he wants.

There’s a man inside who jumps about three feet when the door goes bang. He’s got that tired, sunken look of someone who’s been under stress for a long time, and right now he looks about ready to piss himself.

“Hullo!" Moriarty says cheerfully. “We just came around to see how you were doing.” He looks around the room and spots two packed suitcases. “Oh, are you going somewhere?”

“Please,” he sobs, "please, I didn’t mean to.”

Moriarty jerks his head at you. You hit the man in the stomach and pull his arms behind his back.

“Teach him a lesson, Sebastian,” Moriarty says, staring fixedly at your prisoner.

You turn him around and sock him in the jaw. He stumbles back, raising his arms weakly, not even trying to defend himself, the stupid cowardly pathetic  _fuck_. You take his arm and slam him hard against the wall.

The next thing you’re aware of is Moriarty pulling you back by the shoulder, saying "that’s  _enough_ ,” in an impatient tone that implies he said it more than once already.

You blink. The man is lying curled up on the floor, face twisted in pain, and your knuckles are covered in blood. It’s  _years_  since you last lost it like that. God, your frustration must’ve reached critical levels.

Moriarty crouches down next to him and leans in. “I’ll tell Mr Moriarty you’ll be ready and waiting when he needs you, shall I?” he says softly. The man gives a choked-off sob but he nods. You get a handkerchief out and try to clean the worst of the blood from your shaking hands.

Moriarty gets up and you follow him outside. “Are we done for today?" you ask him, still cleaning your hands, avoiding his eye. It’s only two in the afternoon but he's been working you hard for the entire week, and besides, you prefer not to spend too much time in his presence these days.

He gives you a quick look. “You might as well come back to mine, you’ll cause a stir if you walk around like that.”

You look down. It isn’t just your hands, your shirt and trousers are splattered with blood as well. He’s got a point, even on the Aylesbury people would look twice if you showed up looking like you just axe-murdered someone.

He ushers you into the car – an old one, he doesn’t want to get blood in the fancy cars – and for once, he drives.

“So what was – ” you start.

“None of your business, stop prying.”

“I’m not - ” You bite your tongue and look outside of the window, rubbing at your knuckles. You try to think of anything else, but anger is burning inside of you and it takes all your self-control not to take him by the shoulders and shake him until he  _sees_  you again.

He keeps silent for the entire ride there, not saying a word even when he pulls up in front of his building. You get inside as quickly as you can, try to ignore him while you're in the lift, and go straight to the bathroom when you reach the flat.

You look at your reflection in the mirror. _Come back to mine_ , he said. Isn’t that universal code for  _let’s fuck_? But this is Moriarty, who never follows the rules. Nothing is certain about him.

You should go straight home. You’re far too worked up, this can’t end well. Whatever the outcome, you’ll only end up even more furious. He’ll never give you what you want.

You scrub the last of the blood from your clothes and go back to the living room. Begging for scraps, and you hate yourself for it, just a little, but you can’t bring yourself to leave.

Moriarty comes out of the kitchen, carving into a pear, and when he sees you he does a little double-take. “Why are you still here?” he asks, sounding genuinely surprised.

“Why am I – ?” Like you’re somehow being _presumptuous_ , like he -

You snatch one of his little knickknacks he keeps on the mantlepiece and throw it with all your might at the wall. It shatters into a satisfyingly large number of shards.

There's a heavy silence.

“Was that really necessary?” Moriarty asks mildly.

“ _What the fuck do you want from me?”_   you yell. “Am I  _real_ to you? What do I have to do, what do you want me – how can I  _prove - ”_

Words fail you and you have to take a few deep breaths. He doesn't answer, and there's a look on his face that you can't identify, that on another person you would call fear. But that's absurd, Moriarty doesn't get afraid and if he did, it certainly wouldn't be of you.

“You  _own_  me,” you say desperately. “I know that, you know that. So why don't you – what do I have to do to for you to  _trust_ me _?_ ”

He stabs his knife into the pear, puts it fastidiously on a napkin on the counter, and sticks his hands in his pockets, watching you hyperventilate.

“Dear me,” he says complacently, “you are an ambitious sort of chap, aren't you, Sebastian Moran?” For some reason his accent has switched to perfect received pronunciation, the very image of a country gentleman. An echo of your father, and you  _really_ don't want to think of him right now.

He saunters over to you and it's another one of those moments were normal people would start running. He looks like a predator. You stand your ground.

“Why?” he asks simply.

“You know why,” because you think he does and you don't, you can't even begin to put in words what it is you want.

He hums, then walks to his desk and takes something from a drawer. He tosses it to you and your fingers close on cold steel. Police-issue handcuffs, shiny and oiled.

You look up at him, and he raises his eyebrows at you. What’s he waiting for? Why doesn’t he -

He’s leaving the choice to you.

You almost laugh out of sheer shock. You can walk away from this, he’s  _allowing_ you to walk away, no repercussions, no consequences. You could say no and step outside, and come back tomorrow and pretend nothing’s changed, and he would let you. It’s amazing.

But you made your choice a long time ago, when you first came up to his flat, or even before that, when you called him out, recognised him by the look in his eyes, the edge of his smile. You're his, but he is yours too, and the answer has always been, will always be  _yes_.

“Bedroom?” you ask, and his answering grin is positively  _feral_.

***

You stumble through the bedroom door, clutching at him and trying to keep up, because  _fuck_ , it's like someone flipped a switch and he's become a crazed sex-maniac. If before it seemed like he didn't want to touch you, now the opposite is true and it feels like he literally can't wait to get to your skin. He pulls at your jacket and you hear the fabric rip, six hundred quid ruined and _you couldn’t care less._

He topples you onto his bed and goes immediately for your wrist. It's fastened to the bedpost before you can protest, but you have passed the point of no return. The realisation makes your stomach flip and you grab his collar, pull him into another kiss. He takes your face, nails digging into your cheeks, responding with a heat you would never _ever_ have thought him capable of.

He pulls your hand roughly from his neck and clicks the other handcuff closed. You pull at the restraints, more out of instinct than a conscious need to test. No give. He has torn your shirt too, buttons strewn over the sheets and floor. You’re spread open, vulnerable, and something close to panic curls inside your stomach. You look at him, searching for some reassurance.

He's straddling you, still fully-clothed, looking at you with a pleased, excited smile on his face. “You’re _scared_ ,” he says with obvious delight.

“I’m not, I’m – ” You try to touch him and your hand pulls against the handcuffs. He takes your wrist, slides up and tangles his fingers with yours. His other hand touches the side of your face. “I’m pretty much exactly where I want to be.”

“You've been  _dying_  for this, haven't you?” he says gently, thumb tracing your bottom lip.

“Do you want me to beg?” Your voice is already rougher than usual, and you're still wearing most of your clothes and he's going to  _wreck_  you.

“Not yet, but I'm sure we'll get there.”

Jesus. You drop your head back on the pillows and look up at him, helpless.

He tilts his head, considering you. “Do you remember what I said about pain?”

“Do it right and it feels just like pleasure.” You're not likely to forget those words, that particular night has been haunting your dreams for months now.

“Let's test that theory, shall we?” And he takes a knife from the bedside table.

***

You've been tortured before. You passed your RTI training, you spent one vicious night in the hands of the Taliban, and you've still got the scars from your first year at Eton, when you talked back to a tin-pot sadist and he thought it would be a laugh to press a scalding hot copper kettle against the inside of your underarm. You're used to pain.

This is something else.

Besides, the knife is back on the bedside table and now it feels like he's cataloguing you, finding every sensitive spot on your body you know of, some you didn't, and he's watching you  _all the time_ , barely even blinking, like you're an important scientific experiment and he's afraid of missing the crucial moment. It's fucking scary, especially because you suspect he's storing this information away for later use.

He’s straddling your thighs, flat of his hand slowly sliding over your stomach, eyes fixed on your face. His thumb strokes the skin between your third and fourth rib, and you twitch. He smiles briefly, another spot added to his list, fuck, you’re not going to survive it when he starts using that knowledge, unless...

An idea hits you.

There's a place between the bottom of your ribcage and your hip where a piece of shrapnel damaged the nerves, which is now completely numb. Make him think that’s sensitive as well and you’ve got at least some breathing space. You wait until his fingers touch right there and then fake a moan.

It sounds pretty convincing to your own ears, but he freezes immediately, and then reaches up and slaps you, hard. “For that, darling,” he says, voice sugar-sweet, “you get another hour.”

“You're on a fucking _time table_?” you croak, cheek stinging.

A quick smile. “Of course I am, you know me, sweetheart, I like to be organised.” He puts his hand on your shoulder and leans over you, putting his full weight on you for a second or two. “And don't try to fool me again, will you? There's a good boy.” He reaches into a drawer and settles back again, pulling on a latex glove. You drop your head back onto the pillows with a heartfelt _fuck_.

“Deduced that, did you?” he asks cheerfully. “Now hush,” and he looks down again, scoots back a little, “I need my concentration.”

You grit your teeth and focus on the ceiling. He shoves a pillow under your arse and you hear the squirt of a tube.

“Now, it has been a while since I've done this, I don't mind telling you, so excuse me if I'm a little  _rusty_ , but if I remember correctly...”

He pushes your thighs open with one rough hand and his lube-slick fingers fondle your arse. You brace yourself for pain, or at least discomfort, but it doesn’t come. He doesn’t even push in, just traces circles with one gentle finger.

“It’s been a while for you as well, hm? Hasn’t it? Since you last did this?” he asks.

You angle your hips up, trying to get him to get  _on_ with it, but he just slides his finger up, runs his knuckle carefully over the inside of your thigh and then down again.

“Well?” he says.

“Wh- What?”

He increases the pressure, easing in less than an inch with excruciating slowness. “Last time you did this.”

“I don’t remember.” You try to move your hips again but his free hand comes up, holds you down.

“Try, then. Guess.” He twists his finger, sliding in deeper.

“A - A few months?”

“Because you prefer being on top.”

“I don’t  _care_.”

He stops and looks up. You bite your lip and throw your head aside, breathing in hard through your nose.

“Really?” he says. You look at him from the corner of your eye. Eyebrows raised, smiling a little, seemingly amused by your confession. “No preference at all?”

“I don’t care who does what as long as – as I get off and the other person knows what they’re doing.”

He looks down again, spreads your thighs a little further and continues working his finger in deeper. “Well, condition two is definitely being filled. And as for one…” He glances up and gives you another quick grin. “Well, that would be telling, wouldn’t it?”

“Yeah, wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise, would I?” you say, although your panting is spoiling the sarcasm a bit.

He chuckles and looks down. “Exactly. Now, let’s see…” He curls his finger up inside of you experimentally. You know what’s coming with a sort of dreadful inevitability, and you’re already hard even though he hasn’t even  _touched_ your cock yet and why the  _fuck_ did you think this was a good idea again?

His finger finds your prostate and you kick your heel against the bed with a curse, only just manage to swallow a desperate  _please_.

“There we are,” Moriarty says smugly. “This is  _fun_ , isn’t it? You’re so wonderfully responsive, Sebastian, really, such a delight to work on.”

 _Work on_ , like you’re one of his experiments. Although you probably are, in a way.

His middle finger starts pushing in as well, his thumb stroking the inside of your thigh. The muscles of your stomach are quivering and your breath is coming in short quick bursts and he’s just _sitting_ there like he’s - like he’s doing nothing more exciting than having a cup of tea and a biscuit.

"Did you know some men can come from prostate stimulation alone?" he says conversationally.

"Yeah, well, I'm _nng_ \- not one of them." 

He angles his wrist, the pads of his fingers pushing up in a slow deliberate stroke that makes your toes curl. "Ah, but have you tried hard enough?"

He presses his fingers up hard, and again, and  _again_ _._ You bury your nails into your palm and pull against the restraints, hard metal biting into your wrists. Even though you _know_ it won’t do anything, but you can’t help yourself.

He stills and looks up at you. “Shush boy, calm down,” he coos, like you’d do for a panicking horse. He strokes your side with his free hand, watches you breathe. “You’re not giving up on me yet, are you? We still have a long way to go.”

“How much - how much longer?” you gasp.

“That’s for me to know and for you to find out, darling.”

You squeeze your eyes shut and try to slow your breathing, but it doesn’t work. Panic has been lurking on the sidelines from the moment he clicked the handcuffs shut and now the uncertainty of the situation finally catches up with you and the dam breaks. You struggle against the metal, heels digging into the mattress, trying to get out, _away_ -

Moriarty frowns and takes your chin. “Sebastian. Look at me.”

You gulp for air and focus on his face. “I don’t – ”

“Shush,” he says again, and something about his cool control is enough to calm you down again, just a little. You curl and uncurl your fingers, breathe.

“See?” He smiles slyly. “You’re in good hands. And speaking of hands…” He lets go of your face and puts his hand flat on your breastbone, fingertips trailing over the various shallow cuts. He finds a deeper one and digs his nail in, and for a moment there’s nothing but bright sharp pain. But then he moves his fingers inside of you again and pain blends into pleasure and it all turns into a confused mess of sensation. You pull at the handcuffs again and Moriarty clucks his tongue.

“You really need to stop doing that, you’re going to hurt yourself.”

You laugh, choked. “ _Really_?”

“Oh, yes. Hurting you is my prerogative now, darling.”

“Shouldn’t you get on with it, then?”

He blinks at you. You smirk back. He narrows his eyes and reaches down, closes his hand around the base of your cock in a grip that’s much too tight to be comfortable. You hiss between your teeth.

He gives you one of his more dangerous smiles. “Don’t _challenge_ me, Sebastian, you’re not going to win.”

“Who says I want to win?”

He licks his lips. “Clever boy.”

“ _Clever_ isn’t the word I’d use," you mutter.

He bends down, looks up at you from beneath his lashes, mouth hovering an inch above your straining cock. He curls his fingers up inside of you and your hips come up again of their own accord, and then his mouth closes around you.

The noise you make in response sounds like nothing more than a _keen_. 

He’s exactly as good as you expected him to be, although there’s one surprising moment when you thrust up and he chokes and coughs for a bit. But apart from that he’s fucking _brilliant_. Picking up easily on what you like and what you don’t, bringing you to the very brink of coming –

And then, as you suspected, stopping. “Not yet,” he says sharply, hand tight around the base of your cock.

You pull against the handcuffs hard enough to seriously hurt, scrabble on the bed and push your hips up only to fall back again, panting. "You fucking sadistic - "

“Go on, breathe through it. I know you can.”

“I know I can,” you say, thinking frantically of algebra and your old PE teacher and Maggie Thatcher, “but why would I?”

“Because I’m telling you to,” he says calmly.

“Good – good point.” The urgency lessens a little. He lets go of you and puts his hand on your thigh, fingers of his other hand still inside of you but mercifully unmoving. You stare at the ceiling, try to ignore the warmth of his palm against your leg.

You remember a girl, picked up in a bar in Milan some years ago, who was really into tantric sex. It seemed like too much hassle for you at the time, but you went along with it because she had a charming smile and a tongue piercing. And, granted, the resulting orgasm had been fucking mindblowing, but that doesn't mean you're a fan.

Doesn't mean you don't feel a creeping sort of dread when you realise what he's going to  _do_ to you.

“Alright,” he says. You squint down and see him smile at you. “Let’s try that again.” And he goes down.

***

After a while you lose track of time, which is bloody unnerving, considering you usually have a near-perfect inner clock. The curtains are shut and the windows are totally soundproof and your entire world has contracted to this room. It's been at least two hours, it has to be, and he's nowhere  _near_  done with you yet.

Your shoulders hurt. Your back is sticking to the sheets with sweat. You can’t remember ever feeling like this, so – so _aware_ of your own body, not even when you were on the operating table in Afghanistan. It’s almost getting too much.

But you're not going to beg. Stubborn, always have been, never knowing when to give up, even when were you a kid. Even your father said so, and if even he noticed it must be true.

Moriarty makes a little noise from where he's bent over your hipbone, and that image is so fucking incongruous with the memory of your father's disapproving face that you burst out laughing.

His fingers close on your jaw, whip-quick, and a second later he's looming over you. “What's funny, Sebastian?” he asks, voice smooth as silk.

You smirk back at him. All your caution got left behind a while ago, when he got the knife back out again. “You're the genius. What, you tellin' me you can't read my mind?” 

His fingers tighten on your jaw in warning, and he tilts his head, considering. “Family or school? Silly question, really, because it's always going to be  _daddy_ , isn't it darling?” On anyone else his smile could have been called sweet.  “You know what I think?” he continues after a second.

“I never know what you're thinking,” you reply, a little breathless 'cause he's pressing his thigh  _just there_...

“I think you're still far too coherent,  _my dear_.”

He lets go, reaches down and squeezes, and you shut your eyes tight, head thrown back. “Plea-” you start, and you have to bite your tongue to stop yourself.

“Hm? What was that?” Moriarty asks, with a mocking lilt to his words.

“Nothing.” You crane your neck up and he catches on and gives in, bends over you and presses his mouth against your chapped lips, his tongue sliding against yours. He’s a greedy kisser, possessive. And controlling too, unsurprisingly, keeping your head still with one hand in your hair. You automatically try to reach out for him and once again the handcuffs clang against the metal of the bedframe.

He breaks off and chuckles, his breath a warm puff against your face. “Still not used to that?”

“No.” You arch up and find his lips again. He puts his hand lightly on your throat, takes his time kissing you. And since you can’t move your arms you throw a leg over his, pulling him closer.

He laughs again and rolls to the side, stretched out next to you.

“I- I’m not used to this at all, you know,” you say, watching him.

“To what?”

“Being passive. Lying back. Being…”

“Being _taken_?” he suggests. He puts his hand on your waist and leans in, as if for another kiss, but he changes direction at the last second and ends up at your throat, just beneath your ear, sucking a mark. You angle your head back, give him access, eyes falling closed.  _  
_

“How does it feel, then?” he murmurs, chest against yours.

_Terrifying. Divine._

He throws his knee over your hips again and leaves a series of sharp stinging bites all down your throat. You moan, try to press as much against him as you can. Not sure if you want him to stop or keep going. 

He lets go of your throat with one last nip and smooths a few sweaty strands of hair from your forehead. “You’re doing quite well, you know,” he says.

“Am I?” 

“So far.” He strokes your cheek, drags his fingers down to rest at your throat. “Your heart is racing,” he remarks, index and middle fingers pressed a little too hard against your jugular. He leans close again, bites at your jaw, licks the marks on your throat.

He literally hasn’t stopped touching you since you fell into bed, not losing skin-contact for even a second. No wonder your heart is racing, no wonder you feel  _drunk_ on touch.

His hand slides down over your ribcage to your hip and your cock. “Still going strong, I see," he says.

You give a choked laugh. “I _want_ you, Jesus, isn’t that fucking _clear_ by now?”

He sits up suddenly and you gasp at the sudden lack of touch, of weight. “ _What_ did you say?” he says sharply.

You blink up at him, confused. “I want you, you prick, fuck, isn’t that – can’t you fucking _see_ that?”

He takes your chin in a rough grip and forces you to look at him. “You want me,” he says softly.

 _More than anything I’ve ever wanted_. You close your eyes and lean into his hand. “Yes.”

He breathes in deeply, stares at you for a few seconds. “Well then," he says at last. And kicks your legs open.

 ***

Time fragments. The slow slide of his mouth around you seems to last for hours, but then the next moment you’re on your knees facing down with no idea how you got there.

There’s not an inch of you left that he hasn’t touched, explored, committed to memory. You’ve been in a near-constant state of arousal for far too long and you’re getting light-headed, and still he doesn’t relent, still he strokes and scratches and licks until finally desperation wins the battle with your pride and you choke out, “Please.”

He stops moving, hand on your hip. “What was that?”

“Please,” you say again. “ _Please_ , just – ”

He sits up. “You want me to stop?” He pouts at you, but there's a mad glint in his eyes and if you back out now, you're not getting out of here alive.

Besides, you don't really want him to stop, do you?

“Just, just give me a minute.”

He tilts his head, contemplates the ceiling, pretending to consider. You brace yourself for – something.

“Okay,” he says cheerfully. You open your eyes in surprise and he hops off the bed. He even undoes the fucking handcuffs, and you're too stunned to speak.

“Now, I don't have to tell you that you're going to keep your hands neatly by your side, sweetie.”

“Right,” you mutter, carefully running a hand over your face. Your shoulders are screaming in protest.

Moriarty pads barefoot around the room and fishes your cigarettes from your ruined suit jacket. He walks over to the window and settles down in the window seat, idly lighting up and taking a deep drag.

You might feel  _dead_  but Moriarty himself isn’t looking that neat either. His shirt is hanging open, jacket long gone, hair messy with sweat. He curls and stretches his bare toes - funny, you don’t remember him taking off his shoes and socks - and blows a stream of smoke at the ceiling.

There's blood on his sleeve, your blood. The colours blur together. You try to concentrate on your breathing. After his constant nearness this feels strangely… empty. Like you’re at the bottom of a pit or a lake, everything else far out of reach. It’s almost enough to call him back.

Only almost, though.

He clears his throat, and you turn your head. He’s leaning back against the wall, legs spread, eyes closed. “The thing is, Sebastian,” he starts, stops. He takes another drag, blows a perfect little circle. “The thing is, I could use a second in command. A right-hand man, someone to take care of the dirty work for me. But I'd need someone obedient, and you are many things, my dear, but obedient you are most emphatically  _not_.”

You make a quiet protesting noise, and he turns his head to look at you. He doesn't look manic anymore, just a bit tired, weary, almost vulnerable.

“I've read you fi-ile,” he says, voice lilting. “And I talked to a few of your fellow soldier boys. No point denying it, our little Sebastian Moran has  _a problem with authority_ , I believe the Major called it. Never knows when to keep his mouth shut, always knows better, always talks back.”

“It doesn't say that in my file,” you answer, closing your eyes. “My file is fucking immaculate.”

“I read between the lines, darling. Besides, the very first time I laid eyes on you, you were being insubordinate. Mouthing off to your boss.”

“Only when the people in charge are idiots.”

“Hm? Sorry?”

You have trouble concentrating on your thoughts, images flitting randomly in the dark. Like butterflies, and Jesus, how far out are you if start comparing things to fucking  _butterflies_?

“ _Sebastian_."

You open your eyes, find your focus again. “I'm perfectly willing to serve,” you have to force the words out, “if there's someone worth serving.”

It doesn't make much sense to you, but he seems to grasp the meaning behind the words, the way he's done before. The corner of his mouth curls up in another of those tired half-smiles. “You do talk back, though.”

“Yeah.” You roll your head and meet his eye. “But you don’t mind that, do you? Not really.”

“It  _depends_.” He stretches lazily and slides off the seat, walks back to the bed. "But you're right, I don't really mind." He stops next to the mattress, looking down at you, and takes a deep drag from his cigarette. "As long as you remember who's in charge."

You laugh. "I don't forget that, trust me." 

He hums and crawls onto the bed, straddles you and pulls your arms over your head. Once you're secured, he sits back a bit and just looks at you. Like looking into the sun, it’s just too bright, and you turn away instinctively but he tsks and takes your jaw, turning your head back to him.

“You think I should give you a chance, then, do you? Take a risk?”

He takes the cigarette between his fingers, places both hands next to your head, and slowly leans down. The glowing tip is only an inch or two from your cheek.

“But I would need your complete, unquestioning obedience,” he whispers in your ear. “No more _pushing_.” He pushes himself back up, takes another drag. “Think you can manage that?”

You've been trying to convince him of this for months, but now, with those pitch black eyes on you, it feels like something different. Something deeper. This isn't just about work anymore. And finally,  _finally_ , you feel something click.

“I was fucking  _born_  for it,” you snarl.

Moriarty smiles thinly. Then he stubs his cigarette out in a gash on your chest, and you twist in your chains and  _howl_.

***

There’s pain, but not that much, nothing you can’t handle. You've got that ache in your stomach from when you've been hard for too long and your cock feels about ready to explode and on the whole you feel like a string pulled taut, almost to breaking point. But it goes beyond the physical, it's like your entire being is reduced to nothing but _want_.

Fuck knows how long it’s been, it feels like days.

It seems absurd that at one point you didn’t want to beg because you’ve been doing nothing else for a while now, the only word you can still form, _please_ , over and over again. Not that it helps, not that he stops, but you’ve got to do something or you’re going to lose it.

He’s been talking, but you haven’t been concentrating on the words. You bite your tongue, try to focus.

“- could have avoided this, if you’d been satisfied with what you had.”

“Wasn’t,” you mumble.

“Not satisfied?” he says. “Yes, I noticed, you weren’t exactly _subtle_ about it, darling.”

Another deep breath and the room stops spinning, vision going clearer again. His hand runs over your arm and your shoulder to your neck, your hair, petting gently. It’s oddly comforting.

 “You’re greedy,” he says. “Not content with just a fraction, you want _everything_.”

“Yes.”

“Well, so do I.” The hand in your hair tightens suddenly and he pulls your head back, baring your throat. You give a little sob, too fucking _broken_ for anything else. “I want _everything_ of you," he says, low and intent. "Which means I won’t stop until you can’t speak, can’t think, can’t _breathe_ , until there’s nothing left of you that isn't entirely _mine_. Understand?”

“Yes," you say, vision blurry with tears.

“And you want it?”

And a third time, choked, feeling final, “ _Yes._ ”

His grip loosens and you lean your cheek against his underarm, let your eyes fall closed. You’re seeing spots again.

Three yeses. It’s a fairytale-thing, isn’t it? Three tasks, three wishes, three promises.

“ _What_ did you say?” he asks.

You blink. Were you talking out loud? You give the cuffs a jangle and he leans down, pressed against you. He has finally lost the last of his clothes, and he’s very obviously hard. He hasn’t come either, it isn’t just you being on tenterhooks here.

His fingers trace your face, forehead to cheek, tilting your chin up. “Where are you?” he asks softly. He's studying you again, frowning, a little furrow between his eyebrows.

“Dunno.” You open your mouth, arch up, and he recognises the plea and bends down, kisses you. For a few moments it almost feels normal, except for the dull warm pain of the cuts on your chest, your wrists.

He pulls off and strokes your cheek with his knuckles. You close your eyes.

And then there’s a loud sound and a sudden stinging pain in your cheek. You blink, disoriented – he must have slapped you again.

“Stay here,” he says.

“I am, _I am_ , just – just…” You take a deep shaking breath. “Please.”

"Please what?"

You look at him, unable to answer. He grins and kisses you again, thigh pressing against yours, and another bit of your control slips away, surrendered.

***

And if you lost track of time before, you've lost track of everything now. You're on your knees on the bed, trying to hold on to the headboard, hindered by the handcuffs scraping your wrists at every moment you make, he makes.

You're teetering on the edge of consciousness, reduced to overloaded nerve-endings and Jim Moriarty, inside you, one hand on your cock, one on your throat, and blood running down your back, tears running down your face, and you're _so close_  and this time he doesn't pull back at the last possible moment, this time he pushes you over the edge, and everything is  _pain_  and  _pleasure_  and  _h_ _im_ , and then everything blacks out.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... well, don't say I didn't warn you.
> 
> Chapter 5, which is basically the porn-filled honeymoon period, will be (hopefully) up next Wednesday.
> 
>  **RTI** : Resistance To Interrogation. A standard part of training for elite troops like the SAS, meant to prepare them in case they should ever be captured and interrogated/tortured.The trainees get put through the sort of thing they could expect when captured, only under controlled circumstances. But yes, essentially they're getting tortured.


	5. Jim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which Seb Discovers Mood Swings, Weird Sex, And Good Tailoring

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for discussion of domestic abuse, bullying, explicit m/m sex (lots of it), dubious consent, D/s, graphic violence, general mental health problems, really unhealthy relationships

**5\. Jim**

_To your recklessness and pleasure_  
 _I purely commit_  
 _'Cause everything that you are_  
 _Is everything that is_  
 _(IAMX – Nature Of Inviting)_

Everything is warm and soft. Your limbs feels heavy, every breath’s a delight. There’s nothing but bone-deep contentment, utter relaxation. Floating in the dark, like a -

Pain flares sharply, from what feels like a dozen places at once. You freeze. Movement, you moved and then everything starting hurting. You open your eyes. White, soft - sheet. Pillow.

Your head feels packed with cotton wool, every thought like treacle, slow and sticky.

You're alone in bed. It's also not your bedroom. And you smell of sex and blood and old sweat, and yes, that's bringing back memories -

_his hand in your hair, pulling your head back, baring your throat, and the cold touch of a knife against your jugular_

\- but you're still alive, even if it feels like you just survived an explosion.

You roll your shoulders experimentally. Aside from the aching muscles there's a place between your shoulder blades that -

_blood trickling slowly down your back_

\- feels like it's on fire. It hurts like hell, but it's bearable and you can hear the faint crackle of medical tape, which means that it's at least been taken care of, even if you can't remember that happening.

You very carefully roll over and manage to get upright, sitting on the side of the bed with both feet firmly on the ground. You press the heels of your hands into your eye sockets and try to clear your head. It's  _ages_  since you last were properly hungover, but it feels a bit like that, light-headed and generally weird.

What do you remember? Being angry, beating someone up, and then - did you really  _shout_ at Moriarty?

Handcuffs. Pain. Wanting. His eyes on you, never looking away. And something he said, about obedience and wanting a second in command -

_you want me_

\- did you _dream_ all that? Did you fall asleep on his bed with your subconscious overdosing on wish-fulfillment? But no, it has to be real, every bruise and scrape and burn proves that.

You look around. The bed's a mess. The once pristine white sheets are stained beyond recovery, a silent testament of last night. The heavy curtains are still shut and there's no way of telling how long you were asleep. Or unconscious, you didn't fall asleep after all, you  _passed out_.

There's a large bottle of water sitting on the bedside table. Normally you would double check before drinking anything Moriarty gives you, but after last night…

Well. Things are different now, aren't they?

You drink half the bottle and your stomach growls. Breakfast first then, shower afterwards. You stumble through the bedroom. It’s a bit chilly, but there's a robe hanging from the back of the door. It’s soft, and warm, and definitely too large to be Moriarty’s.

You open the door and lean your shoulder against the doorframe. There’s music playing, something jazzy with a trumpet, and Moriarty –  _Jim –_ is sitting on the couch, laptop on his thighs, wearing only a shirt and trousers.

“Take a shower,” he says lazily, not looking up from his screen, “you  _reek_.”

“Food first,” you answer. Your voice is hoarse -

_please, the only word left you can still form, over and over again, screaming at him as a knife point digs into the skin between your shoulder blades_

“There’s bread in the cupboard above the sink.”

You blink and try to shake the memories. He's still not looking at you, so you head – slowly, carefully – to the kitchen. This takes you right past the couch where he's sitting, and any worries you might have about him ignoring you are put to rest when he sticks out a foot and you go down on your knees, hard.

“What the  _fuck_ -” you manage to say, before he grabs the back of your head and kisses you, all teeth and tongue, and your lip, barely healed from last night, splits open again. The taste of it -

_you sink your teeth in your lip, trying to keep still, as he digs his nails into your burnt-and-bruised skin_

He lets you go with a last little pull on your hair and turns back to his screen, cool as a cucumber. You can't bring yourself to move for several seconds.

Jesus  _fuck._ Talk about a game changer.

You get back up laboriously and go to the kitchen. You’re halfway there when he speaks up again. “Oh, and no coffee for you right now. You need your fluids.”

You turn around and he flashes you his devil's grin, the one that makes everyone a little nervous, that always stops your heart for a second. “You lost quite a bit, after all.”

 _blood-stained sheets and sweat_ _and tears_

“I wouldn’t say  _lost_ ,” you say slowly.

He raises an eyebrow at you. “Wouldn’t you?”

“I’d say  _taken_ from me.”

“Semantics,” he drawls. “The important thing is to fill them up again.” He looks back at his laptop. “There’s a bottle of orange juice in the fridge, you can drink that up as well.”

“Right. Thanks.” You turn your back to him again and find the bread.

It's strangely domestic, sitting at the table munching slice after slice of toast with Jim working only a few yards away. You keep sneaking looks at him, expecting  _something_ , but he doesn't look up. He looks completely and utterly at ease, unlike anything you've seen him before.

-  _the same old tingle that I feel inside,_ Ella croons in the background.

Jim sighs, closes his eyes and cracks his neck. When he opens his eyes again and sees you looking he gives you another unnerving smile, before going back to his screen.

_\- like a leaf that’s caught in the tide -_

After breakfast – it turns out to be three in the afternoon, so lunch is probably more appropriate – you take your much needed shower, careful to keep your back mostly dry. You feel like your shoulders are being wrenched from their sockets every time you raise your arms above your head, but eventually you manage to get mostly clean.

You dry off painfully slowly and pad back to the bedroom in nothing but a towel. Clothes. Where are you going to find those? You have a very clear memory of Jim literally tearing off your shirt, buttons flying, but you can't remember what happened to your trousers. And it's not like you can borrow Jim's stuff, the man's a head shorter than you and all his stuff is tailored so –

Jim is sitting on the bed, various things spread out across the sheets. You pause and stare. A few bottles, a pair of scissors, something white in plastic packaging - bandages. A first aid kit. Which would make sense.

God, your brain is slow today.

He clicks his fingers and points to the bed, and you sit down heavily. It brings back the memories of the first time he did this, when you had been expecting a bullet in the back of your skull and got bandages instead. Jim Moriarty, eternally unpredictable.

He takes care of the small things first, quick impersonal fingers dabbing ointment and disinfectant on the scratches, carefully smearing something cool and fragrant on the burns. You keep your eyes on the bed. Snowy white again. He must have changed the sheets while you were in the shower.

The thought of Jim Moriarty with his arms full of dirty laundry sort of backfires though, and you give an ugly surprised snort of a laugh.

Jim looks up from your shoulder and grins. “You didn’t think the apartment stayed spotlessly clean like this on its own, did you?”

“Do you do the dishes yourself as well?” you ask, smirking back. “In marigolds and a flowery apron?”

“I have a dishwasher,” he says drily. “Now shush, I need to concentrate.”

You lean back and give him access to your chest. You’re still feeling a little… floaty, untethered. The slight pain of the disinfectant barely registers, although you _are_ aware of Jim’s fingers on you, gentle and careful. Like he’s the only thing keeping you connected to reality.

He cleans the last scratch and reaches up to brush your throat. “Those’ll just have to fade, I’m afraid,” he says with a slight smile.

 _Those_  are a set of fingerprint-shaped bruises on both sides of your neck. They’re far from the only bruises you have, but they are incredibly noticeable. You won’t be able to look in the mirror for a while without being remembered of this – which was probably his intention.

Your wrists are next, discoloured and scratched from the handcuffs. From what you remember you spent about half of the time straining against the damn things, no wonder they look like that. Your knuckles are bruised and cut as well, but those are entirely your own fault. Besides, it’s something you’re used to. You’ve got the hands of a martial artist by now, scarred and callused.

He puts your hands back down on the duvet and shifts so he’s sitting behind your back. You know what’s next, and you’re dreading it a little.

He peels off the bandage between your shoulders and traces the lines lightly with his finger. You can’t contain a shudder. You spent a few minutes in front of the mirror earlier, working out the pattern. It wasn't exactly difficult, four lines, one letter.

“You know,” you say, head bowed, “if you wanted to fucking  _mark_  me, you could've taken me to a tattoo parlour or something.”

“Now where would be the fun in that?”

He curls his fingers around your biceps and the next thing you feel is the wet pressure of his tongue on the wound, the fucking  _pervert_. Your right hand flails a bit before finding the end of the bed, holding on and squeezing hard enough to make the pain from your knuckles flare up again. “Not, not sure if that's exactly hygienic,” you gasp.

He chuckles against your back. “Don't tell me that after last night's  _bloodfest_ you're still worried about hygiene?”

“Just don't want you catch anything. Don't know where I've been, and all that.”

There's a creak of the bed as he leans back. “I know exactly where you've been, that's the whole  _point_. And don't worry, you're clean. I've had you tested. Stay still,” he adds irritably, as you twitch in surprise.

“You... What? When?”

“Do keep up, you didn't think I'd share my bed with you without taking some precautions, did you? I took a blood sample when you were asleep in the car, last week.”

“Last  _week – ”_ you say, starting to turn around.

His right hand reaches around your shoulder and grips your chin, jerking your head back. “Eyes to the front.”

“You planned this?” you ask disbelievingly. All that time you were convinced he wasn’t interested while in fact he was stocking up on condoms and lube, it’s unbelievable.

“I  _prepared_  for this, big difference. Now  _hold still.”_   Your shoulders tense as the cotton pad touches your back, and he tuts like the most psychotic schoolmarm in the history of boarding schools.

You shouldn’t be so surprised, really. Mor –  _Jim_ isa control freak, and the idea that he would have done something like this without preparing is even more ludicrous than the opposite. Still, it’s a bit… extreme.

“Ever heard of the concept of  _boundaries_?” you ask wryly.

Jim snorts. “Boring. Predictable.”

“You  _secretly stole my blood._ ”

“I did.” He puts on the last bit of tape and leans forward again, resting his chin on your shoulder and making puppy eyes at you. “Freaked out yet, darling?”

“By you?” Your eyes drop to his mouth, then back up to his dark eyes, unreadable and almost too intense. “Not a chance.”

The corners of his eyes crinkle in pleasure and he pecks you on the lips, tongue sweeping over the open cut, and damn, that's never going to heal if he can't leave it alone.

He hops off the bed and stands, hands in his pockets, looking down on you with a sort of proprietary pride that’s doing strange things to your insides.

“I’d say _all better_ , but that’s not quite true, is it?” he says. “But you’ll heal up in time.”

You tilt your head back and close your eyes, trying to gauge how bad it is. Your conclusion can be roughly summarized as  _pain, everywhere_. “I'm not going to be much use to you for at least a few days, though. I can barely walk a straight line.”

“Never mind.” You crack one eye open and watch him smile slowly. “We'll find a use for you.”

***

He hands you a pair of track bottoms and a t-shirt – which he must have bought especially with this in mind, talk about prepared – and tells you to rest. It’s almost embarrassing how easily you follow his order, and you spend the next few hours dozing.

No more daydreaming or fantasies; you’ve got the real thing now, and it surpasses even the wildest of your hopes. No worries or frustrations either. Something  _changed_  yesterday, and there’s no going back now. No more treating you like a mere employee. No more perfunctory sex. No more fucking dismissals.

Once you stop feeling like you're about to faint you go wandering around the flat a bit, exploring. The bedroom looks larger in daylight, the dark heavy curtains drawn aside. There's a huge walk-in wardrobe, one side of which is packed with suits, his professional outfits, and the other side has pretty much every piece of clothing you can think of. Even a baseball cap, and you turn it around in your hands, trying to imagine Jim in a hat.

The bathroom you've seen before, on those rare occasions he let you in to clean off blood or dirt. A huge bath, easily large enough for two, a fancy walk-in shower, marble and chrome sinks… All style and comfort.

On the other side of the hallway is another door, to what you assumed to be a spare bedroom. The door isn't locked and you open it cautiously.

It doesn't look like a bedroom. It looks like a surveillance room, one wall taken up entirely by more than a dozen different screens, all showing grainy black and white security footage. As you watch, one of them switches from what looks to be the inside of Westminster Palace to the outside of Downing Street.

The all-seeing eye. This explains a lot.

In the corner is a large desk with a terrifying-looking computer on it, as well as spare parts and cables and tiny screwdrivers. You steer clear of that one and go back to the hall.

There's another door, leading to a smaller room filled with filing cabinets. On impulse you open the drawer marked M, and against your expectations you find a folder labelled  _Moran, SAH_. You flip it open.

It's filled with blank pages and another one of his post-its, saying  _nice try, sweetie_.

You can't help but smile.

***

When you get back to the living room, Jim is still sitting on the couch, laptop on his knees. You lean in the doorway and watch him, hair slightly messed up, shirt sleeves pushed up to his elbows. You’ve never seen him looking anything other than perfectly put together, unless he was in disguise. It’s... different. And a bit unnerving. Like seeing the Queen in a tracksuit.

When he gives no signs of noticing you, you go to the bookcase and start looking through his library. Shakespeare, Dante’s Inferno, the Iliad in Greek, a Bible that looks surprisingly well-read. And the bottom shelf, filled with astronomy books.

You glance over your shoulder. Jim is still engrossed in his computer but part of you is still expecting him to snap any moment, kick you out like he’s done before.

He doesn’t look up, so you take one of the astronomy books out and let it fall open. It seems they aren’t just there for show, the margin is scrawled full of tiny annotations. And not so tiny, one of the paragraphs has WRONG written over it in large angry letters.

You put it back and stand up, put your hands in your pockets, shift your weight from one foot to another. At a loss what to do.

Jim finally looks up at you. He sighs and says, “If there’s something you want to know, just  _ask.”_

"Last time I asked something you threatened to kill me.”

“That was  _then,_ this is  _now_ ,” he says, eyes back on his screen.

“Fine. I...” Months of questions, of theories, of wondering, all at an end. You run your hand through your hair. “I don't even know where to start.”

He gives you another quick look. “You can start by sitting down, your legs are starting to wobble.”

The thing is, he’s right, and how weird is it that he noticed that before you? You plop down in an armchair, careful not to lean back. “All those things you had me carry around, what were they?”

He blows out his cheeks. “Lots of things. Copies of diplomatic agreements, intelligence reports, missile plans, maps... That heavy briefcase in January was a new weapon prototype. Let’s see, what else? Oh, a computer virus, that one was on a flash drive.”

“Good thing I didn’t get caught then,” you say, a little stunned.

“I wouldn’t have given them to you if you would have got caught, darling. Don’t,” he adds sharply, and you freeze in surprise, only to realise that you were only a few inches away from leaning against the back of the chair, which with your lacerated back would have stung like a bitch. You put your elbows on your knees.

“And what are you doing now?’ you ask with a nod to his computer. Probably crossing the line, but you won’t know until you try.

He shrugs. “Nothing terribly exciting. Someone wants to disappear and is paying me a lot of money to think of a way to do so.”

You blink. A straight answer, no hesitation. Things  _have_ changed.

Let’s see...  _Think of a way_ , he said. That was how you first heard of him, telling people how to commit crimes, rather than doing it himself. “That’s your – what do they call it? The  _consulting criminal_ stuff _._ ”

“Exactly.”

“But that’s not all of it, is it?”

He stops typing and looks up, and this time it does set off the warning bells. But you plough on. “I mean, if you were just a consultant, then you wouldn’t need me. You could just stay here, in your ivory tower, communicate by mail, but instead you get involved personally. There’s a bigger picture. Isn’t there?”

He looks at you for a while, and then he puts his laptop to the side and stands up.

“Get up,” he says. “I want to show you something.”

He walks to the picture window and you follow him uncertainly. He’s in a strange mood, neither particularly cheerful of bad-tempered. Another new thing. How much exactly did he hide from you?

“What do you see, Sebastian?’ he asks, looking outside.

You look out as well. “London. Houses, people, streets, cars, I don’t know.”

He smiles. “You know what I see? Threads. Cogs. A chain.”

You look at him. “I don’t understand.”

“Those kids,” he says, meditative. “The ones on your estate. You looked at them and saw, what? Boys, playing at being criminals? But they’re part of it. They deal drugs for their boss, and that one gets it from a bigger boss, and up and up it goes. It’s all connected, Sebastian. The drugs runners and the big time dealers, the burglars, the prostitutes, the forgers, they’re all part of a network. And everyone thinks it’s about being on top. About power, about other people bowing down to you. But that’s not the most important thing.” He glances at you. “You know what is, don’t you?”

You watch him, riveted. “Co- ” you start, and then you break off coughing, because your throat has gone dry. “It’s about control.”

He nods. “I know exactly how each cog turns, and if one of them doesn’t turn exactly the way I want it, I can have it replaced. But they know  _nothing_  about me. I’m just a name, a presence. Untouchable.” He looks back at you and  _god_ , that look in his eyes. “That’s what I do, Sebastian. That’s the bigger picture. Do you understand now?”

You nod, speechless.

“Good. You’re staying here tonight.”

You stomach flips. “Shouldn’t I – ”

“That wasn’t a suggestion.”

“Right. Just, er, you’ll remember that I’m - ”

“Don’t worry.” He grins. “I only just got you, I’m not about to break you already.”

Not terribly effective as far as reassurances go, but you’ll take it.

***

“You have Brahms sitting next to Britney Spears.”

“So?”

You take both cd’s from the rack and hold them up. “Deutsches Requiem,” you wave your right hand, “Hit Me Baby One More Time,” left hand. “There should be a  _law_  against this sort of thing.”

Jim rolls his eyes. “Yes, because laws have always stopped me from doing what I want. Put them back, will you? And don’t mess up the order.”

“Won’t.” You put them back, grinning.

You love it, finding out about all his quirks and preferences, not least because you suspect you’re the first person in a long time he’s allowed this close. Besides, he’s fascinating, a big barrelful of contradictions and odd little habits, like his strange eating and sleeping patterns, or his insistence on using an old-fashioned straight razor instead of an electric one.

Is this what people mean when they talk about those happy first few weeks of a relationship? If they are, they’re right. It’s bloody marvelous.

“You listen to all of these?” you ask.

“Depending on mood, yes. Tea. And put on Glenn Miller, there’s a good boy.”

He’s got a specific fondness for old jazz, it seems. Which is fine by you, ‘cause no amount of fascination would have been enough to make you listen through an entire album of ABBA without wanting to stab someone.

Once the flat is filled with the dulcet sounds of swing jazz, you go to the kitchen and put on the kettle. Tea was milk, no sugar, wasn’t it? And coffee black, two sugars.

Christ, look at you, being all domestic. You can just about imagine what any of your old army mates would say. But you would put on a pink apron and waltz through the flat on slippers, if it meant you could stay with Jim.

Loose leaf tea, no tea bags. And real porcelain cups, but that isn’t much of a surprise, you realised fairly early on that Jim is a snob.

When you step back from behind the counter Jim has put down his pen and paper. Arms crossed, legs stretched out, looking at you like he’s waiting for you to perform a magic trick.

“You’re limping,” he says.

“Am I?" You put down his cup and saucer.

“Yes. Just a little, your left leg.”

You sit down at the other end of the table. “War wound. Acts up when the air humidity is high. It isn’t a problem.”

He smiles delicately. “I know it isn’t.”

You may watch him, but he watches you as well. He’s been constantly commenting on everything you do or say, your smoking habits, the books you leaf through, the way your accent is all over the place unless you’re paying attention to it. At first you thought it was criticism, which was worrying, only he doesn’t seem to really mind the things he mentions.

It might just be his way of letting you know you’ve got his attention. Which is also a little worrying, in a way, but it’s a good feeling as well, after all those months of being mostly ignored.

His eyes fall to your jacket and he pulls a pained face. “Do you  _have_  to wear that?”

“If you want me to wander around bollock-naked you’re going to have to turn up the heating,” you say. And then, before he can get any  _ideas_ , “I don’t see why you’re complaining. This is the best suit I’ve got.”

He leans back. “Which is a problem that urgently needs solving. I’m taking you to my tailor this afternoon. No protests.”

“Did you hear any?”

“No-o, but you were about to.”

“Wasn’t.” You take a sip from your cup. Would this turn into a did not-did too game? It might, he can be oddly childish sometimes. “You can take me wherever you want.”

He smiles, and then looks up at the ceiling. “You hum while you’re waiting for the kettle to boil. Off-key.”

 _I see you. I’m watching you_.

Well, he isn’t the only one. “You play air-piano when you’re thinking.”

“You snore.”

“So do you.”

He raises his cup of tea in salute and you join him, grinning widely.

***

The beginning of summer is less than a month away and the weather is ridiculously perfect, clear blue skies and a cool breeze keeping it from getting too hot. There’s a car waiting outside, with another of those blank-faced chauffeurs who does his very best to pretend you don’t exist. Jim lounges in the back, lazy and smiling, stretching like a cat. He's silent, but you don't mind, you're perfectly content just looking at him. 

You get out in Regent’s Street and the car disappears. 

“Where do you keep finding those drivers?” you ask Jim.

He shrugs,  _not important_ , and slides on his Ray Bans. You’re not the only ones out shopping today, there are people everywhere. And it could be your imagination, but Jim seems to be getting a little edgy with that many people around.

“So, your tailor?’ you ask.

He looks at you, and some of the tension seems to disappear. “One of the smaller shops, family business, but also one of the oldest. And the best.”

“Obviously.”

He grins. “Obviously. I can’t have you wearing just anything, can I?”

“I still don’t see what’s wrong with what I have.”

“And that, darling, is why I’m the one who decides what to wear. Here we are.” He pushes a door open. A little bell jingles.

Inside it smells a bit like your father's study, a faint whiff of cologne and wool and wood. Jim leans on the counter and starts flipping through a catalogue. You head to the mannequins in the display.

“Don't wander off too far,” he says.

“I'm not a dog.”

He opens his mouth to reply but closes it again when a man comes in from the back. “Mr Evans!” he coos. “Always a delight to see you. How can I help you today?”

He doesn't look nervous the way most people do when they're around Jim. On the other hand he is pointedly not painting attention to you in a way that's more careful than impolite.

“I'm actually here for my friend today. I'm tired of watching him in those awful things he calls suits. It's  _such_ a shame, isn't it, when handsome men don't know how to dress?” He gives you a sugary-sweet smile.

You've heard him change accents more times than you can count, but this is a new one. It's the clear-cut crisp one that you heard all the time when you were at Eton, dripping with smugness and privilege. It usually sets your teeth on edge, and hearing it from Jim is... off-putting.

“I couldn't agree more,” the tailor says with a matching smile.

“Look, I wear Armani,” you say. “And, what's his name, Hugo something – ”

“Yes, but did you have them altered?” the tailor asks patiently. “What you're wearing now is quite nice, but it's too tight across the shoulders and the waist doesn't fit properly.”

“And what's the point of nice clothes if they don't fit, am I right?” Jim says, practically oozing charm.

“Exactly. Please follow me to the fitting room and I'll get the measuring tape.”

Jim and you follow him to a backroom. “And can you bring some fabric samples too?" Jim asks.

“Naturally. Which colours?”

“Navy, charcoal. Nothing too  _modern_.”

“Of course. Although with his colouring you can easily go a bit lighter.”

They go on like this for a while, discussing fabrics, patterns, lining, leaving you standing by the sidelines. You know a good suit from a bad one but you have no bloody idea what they're on about now. Jim seems to be enjoying himself, though.

When they're done, the tailor leaves and Jim hops onto on a table.

“Do I get any say in this?” you ask, more amused than irritated.

“If you're a good boy I'll let you pick the tie. Anyway, aren't you used to other people telling you what to wear by now?”

“Ye-es, but that doesn't mean I enjoy it.”

Jim smirks. “Learn to.”

The tailor comes back in, holding a notebook and a measuring tape. “Take off your jacket and empty your pockets, please,” he says deferentially.

You glance at Jim who gives you an impatient nod. The content of your pockets is enough to get you arrested at most airports. But if Jim says it's fine, then it means the man can be trusted not to panic.

You put down a switchblade, a set of lockpicks and a coil of piano wire on the table – ever-prepared boy scout that you are. The tailor barely looks at them.

“Now if you'll just spread your arms, please...”

You do as you’re told and the tailor wraps the tape around your chest.

“What did you wear between Eton and the army, then?” Jim asks idly.

“Mostly ripped jeans and band t-shirts.” The tailor, currently measuring the length of your arm, shudders visibly. You give a one-shouldered shrug. “It was the early nineties, grunge era. It felt rebellious, I suppose.”

“And after that back to uniforms, hm? But at least this suit will fit better than those.”

“It better. Army uniforms were pretty much one-size-fits-none.”

The tailor gives another little disgusted shiver, and you feel your cruel side wake up. There's just something about those prim proper men that brings out the worst in you.

“Although those first few months in Oxford I spent more time out of my clothes than in them,” you say casually. “You know how it is, six years in an all-boy school and suddenly you’re surrounded by young women. Didn’t spend a single night in my own bedroom for three weeks straight.”

The tailor drops his measuring tape and scrambles for it with a muttered apology. Jim raises an eyebrow at you. You wait until the tailor is done with the upper body measurements, and when he drops to his knees to measure your inseam, you say, “Not that the young men weren’t fun too.”

The back of his neck turns bright red.

“It’ll never cease to amaze me,” you continue in sadistic glee, “the absolute  _filth_  that’s hidden behind those proper exteriors.”

You glance at Jim, who mouths  _behave_. You grin back. The tailor coughs politely and you turn your attention back to him.

“We’re, er, we’re done,” he says, stammering a bit.

“Really?” you say softly, watching him get up. “That’s a shame.”

And the man turns deep pink again, looking at you with an entertaining mixture of lust and fear. God, it’s almost too easy.

“And when will the next fitting be?’ Jim asks.

The tailor coughs again and backs away a bit. “Now we have the measurements it'll be around a week, I'd say.”

“ _Another_  fitting?” you ask.

“Another two fittings in total, to be sure, and possibly some minute adjustments when it's finished. It should be about six we- ” He looks at Jim. “Three weeks, tops.”

“Excellent, I look forward to seeing the finished article.” Jim extends his hand with another of those charming smiles and the tailor shakes it warmly, apparently recovered from his earlier embarrassment. It isn't faked either, the man really seems to like Jim. Amazing how personable he can be when he wants to.

“Always a pleasure doing business with you, Mr Evans,” the tailor says.

“The same, naturally,” Jim answers gracefully.

You take your things back from the table. Jim heads for the door. “Are you coming?” he asks over his shoulder.

You wink at the tailor once Jim has turned his head and make sure your fingers brush the edge of his suit when you pass him. He blushes again, and you're going to have  _fun_ with this one when you come back next week.

Once outside, you ask, “Doesn't he suspect? What you do for a living?”

Jim snorts. “Of course he does. He isn't blind.”

“But - ”

“The wonderful power of self-illusion. He only sees what he wants to see, which is a charming man with good taste in clothes, and who is definitely not in any way connected to all those nasty things you have in your pockets.” He throws his arms wide. “Control, dear boy, it's just another form of control, making people believe - ”

“- what you want them to believe, bloody magician you are.”

You turn the corner to find the car pulling up only a few paces away, exactly on time. In London traffic.  _Magician_  might be exactly the right word for him.

He pulls you in the car by your tie. “Come on, I want to get you out of those horrible clothes as soon as possible.”

“You're going to be able to resist until we're home?”

“I have absolutely no intention of doing so. Get  _in,_ Sebastian.”

By the time you're around the corner your shirt is hanging open and he's got his hand down your trousers; he's nothing if not thorough.

“What about the driver?” you ask, trying to slow him down a bit.

“He knows not to look. Which reminds me...” He sits up a bit and takes your ear, giving it a nasty twist. “You can flirt all you want, puppet,” he hisses, “but if you even  _think_ about putting your cock anywhere near that tailor, I will rip off your balls and use them as paperweights.” And he dives back for your throat.

Jesus  _Christ_ , talk about mood swings.

“Wait, is this a general rule?” you gasp.

He abruptly stops moving, nose just beneath your jaw bone. You look down uncertainly at the top of his head. “Am I supposed to be monogamous?”

For a few moments he stays like that, and then he sits up and leans forward to the driver, who has gone markedly pink.

“I changed my mind,” Jim says calmly. “We're going home.”

“Yessir,” the driver says, staring politely ahead.

Jim leans back and looks out of the window, ignoring you. You do up the buttons of your shirt.

It's hard, this, finding out what's allowed and what isn't. Most of it comes naturally – in fact it's a little worrying how easy you find it, knowing what he wants of you without him ever having to say it – but some things you have to ask. Before he didn't seem to mind, but right now he looks like he's been slapped.

A few minutes later the car pulls up in front of Jim's building and you go the lift in silence. It's only there, when he's still pointedly not looking at you, that you break.

“This isn't easy for me, you know,” you say. He turns his head and raises an eyebrow. “I can't read minds like you can, and I don't – It's not like I've ever been exclusive with anyone else.”

He smiles. “Are you worried I won't be enough for you?”

You blink, ‘cause that... that's the last thing on your mind. “Actually I was thinking the opposite.”

The lift pings and he steps inside the flat. You follow him inside.

“It's not that I'm not – ” you start, but you stop when he turns and leans against the table, looking at you.

“Come here,” he says softly, and you cross the room without another word, standing before him.

He puts his hand on the nape of your neck and pulls you down gently. His lips brush yours, soft at first, and then deepening the kiss, his other hand tangling in your hair. You make a little noise at the back of your throat and he tugs gently at your neck, turning you around so you’re leaning against the table, Jim standing between your legs.

And then he breaks off suddenly and punches you in the stomach. You double over in pain and he takes your arm, wrenching it back painfully so you have the choice between turning around or dislocating your shoulder. You end up bent half over the table, one hand on the surface to brace yourself.

He slides one hand underneath your shirt, cold fingers caressing your spine.

“You could have just asked,” you say, head bowed.

“Sometimes, Sebastian, I expect you to do things without me having to ask.”

“And how the fuck am I supposed to always know what you want?”

He lets go of your arm and reaches around, popping open the buttons of your trousers. “Well, I’m pretty sure you can guess what I want right now.”

“I have a hunch,” you say dryly. He lets go and you slide your trousers and underwear down.

He’s been surprisingly chaste the last few days, giving you time to heal, time to work through what happened. It’s a good thing, you needed it, but that doesn’t mean you’ve suddenly stopped wanting him.

You hear a cap being popped and you look over your shoulder. “You carry lube in your inside pocket?”

“Well, if you prefer to do without...”

“Just an observation.”

Jim is obviously still as impatient as he was before he clammed up in the car and he wastes no time, pushing one finger inside of you without being too careful. You curse and topple forwards, and your forearm hits the wooden top of the table hard, another bruise for the collection.

“A word of warning would be nice?” you say, glaring over your shoulder.

He licks his lips and works in another finger, and you let your head fall forward. He isn’t exactly gentle but god, you’re practically panting for it. Even so, he pulls his fingers back out a little sooner than you were expecting, and you have enough experience to know that this isn’t going to be comfortable, not with this little preparation, not while you’re this tense.

“That’s all I get?" you ask.

You hear the rip of a condom wrapper. “It’s all you deserve,” he says.

“Why, ‘cause I’ve been naughty?”

You can feel the head of his cock nudge against you and you close your eyes, hands tightening around the edge of the table. You could try to relax, all you would need is a little time -

“Consider yourself lucky I had lube handy,” and he snaps his hips forward.

It hurts. There's always some measure of discomfort and usually you can feel beyond that, but now it's difficult to concentrate on anything but the pain of it.

But he doesn't move like you expected him to. Instead he goes still, giving you the time to adjust, and after a while you become aware of his fingers combing through your hair.

You can hear cars driving by, your own laboured breath, but Jim doesn’t make a sound.

Eventually the pain starts to fade and his hand goes from your hair to your neck, holding you down. He pulls back a little and pushes slowly back in, changing the angle slightly and you have to bite your arm to keep quiet.

“Tell me,” he says, reaching around and closing his fist around you, “who are you thinking of, right now? That pretty tailor? The blushing driver? The shopgirl with the charming smile yesterday?”

You don't even  _remember_  the girl in the shop. “You, of course it's you, there's no one else, there's - ” The pain is quickly becoming a distant memory with every movement, every stroke of his hand.

“Remember that, will you?” he says, sounding a little breathless. “Remember  _this_ ,” and his other hand presses against the bandages on your back, and whether it’s simply the pain or the reminder of  _that night_ , it’s the final push you need. You throw your head back and bite the inside of your cheek to keep quiet, because even though you are enjoying this quite a bit more than you expected, there’s no need to be too fucking _obvious_.

Jim follows you not that long after, luckily before it can get painful. You feel like you’re about to collapse, anyway.

He doesn’t pull out immediately, as if he’s waiting for something. “And have you learned your lesson, Sebastian?” he says, something in his voice you can’t read.

“You do have an original method of teaching, I’ll give you that.” He presses between your shoulder blades again and you curse. “Yes, fine, message fucking received. Monogamy. No one but you.”

“Quick learner, are you?”

Sarcastic fuck. He pulls out and you let out a long breath.

“Is this about to become a regular thing?” you ask, head still down. “You snapping your fingers at any time and expecting me to bend over?”

“Why, are you complaining?”

You look over your shoulder and see him pull off the condom, examining at it with a fastidious twist of his mouth. “Does it look like I'm complaining?”

He tosses the condom in the bin and buttons up his trousers. “Don’t worry, you’ll loosen up in time. A couple of weeks and who knows, maybe we caneven ditch the lube.”

You groan. “I’d rather not, thanks. Anyway, don’t you ever want to be on the, er,  _receiving_  end of things?”

“When and if the mood strikes me, I’ll let you know.” He pats your arse. “Get cleaned up, darling, you look debauched.”

“So does the table.” You straighten up, wincing. “I'm going to be walking bow-legged for at least a day, thanks to you.”

“That was the intention, yes.”

***

The week after you go back to Savile Row, alone, and behave like a perfect gentleman. Much to the disappointment of the tailor, who keeps dropping what he obviously thinks are subtle hints. You’re not even that tempted. A couple of weeks ago you wouldn’t have thought twice to drag him to the back room and fuck him right over his fabric samples, but you’ve got Jim now.

And he really is every inch the spectacular lay you suspected him to be. Plus, he’s fucking insatiable. You shag in the back of the car, in back alleys behind bars and clubs, on his ridiculously comfortable bed, staining the froofy silk sheets, basically anywhere and anywhen he feels like it. It’s one hell of an adjustment: you’ve never had anything long-term before, which means you averaged out at about once a week, maybe every two weeks for the last few months, while now... Christ, now it’s at  _least_ once every day, most of the time more, all it needs is a certain look or a stray touch or something in his voice and you’re off, dragging him to the bedroom, or letting him pin you against the nearest surface.

It’s almost worth the months and months of sexual frustration that came before.

***

Jim does come along for the final fitting, because  _you need my eye for detail, darling, I want that suit to be perfection._  And if it makes him happy, why not?

The tailor slides the jacket on and you shift your shoulders experimentally. Not too tight to be restrictive, but no awkward folds or draping. You look in the mirror, do a little twirl.

“And  _that’s_ what a good suit is supposed to look like,” Jim says, sounding smug.

You turn around and for a second his grin slips, as if he - what? Sees something in you he didn’t expect? But he rallies quickly enough. “You look like you’ve stepped straight from a catalogue,” he says with a smirk.

You look back at your reflection. “Careful, I’ll start to think you only keep me around for my looks.”

“And what if I am?" He meets your eye in the mirror.

“I’m more than just a pretty face, you know. I’ve –” you shoot a look at the tailor, who’s watching from a few discreet yards away. “Well, with my skills, I could find work  _anywhere_.”

“You think I’d let you?’ he asks lazily.

You turn around again and raise your eyebrows. The tailor is looking between the two of you with a puzzled frown. Man hasn’t got a chance of working out what’s between you, though. Hell, even you can’t.

“You think I’d want to?” you shoot back.

Jim smiles and ducks his head. “Job well done,” he says to the tailor. “It’s a perfect fit.”

“It rather suits sir, I have to say,” the tailor says.

You catch Jim’s eye. “Yeah, it does.”

***

“Taking up construction?”

The table, the chairs, and part of the floor are all covered in blueprints, and Jim is standing in the middle, tapping his chin.

“Military base,” he says. “Client wants something that’s kept inside.”

It’s been two months since - well,  _since_ , but you’re still not used to seeing the plans, hearing the explanations. Although now you know what you’re doing it all for, everything goes far more efficiently. And occasionally he does lose his patience, when you’re not catching up quickly enough, but most of the time he’s a surprisingly good teacher.

You look down at the blueprint closest to you. “These look kind of familiar.”

“They should, you stole them only two weeks ago.” He sweeps a few of the plans aside and sits on the table, swinging his bare feet.

“That would explain it.” You take a look at the other ones, which have a title. “Baskerville?”

Jim looks up. “You know it?”

“Yeah. I’m not supposed to, though. It’s like Area 51, it’s where they keep all the hypothetical aliens and the ethically dubious stuff.”

His face brightens up. “Really? I might want to take a look there myself, then. Anything else you know?”

“Not really.” You pull up a chair and sit down in front of him. “It’s where careers go to die, no one ever gets promoted out of Baskerville. It’s all very  _mysterious_.” You grin. “Right up your alley, then.”

“Exactly. I need someone to do recon. I could find someone else, but...”

“Nah, it’s fine. I don’t mind a couple of days.”

He grins and puts his foot on the seat of the chair, between your legs. “Growing tired of me already, are you?”

“Yeah, well, you are a bit boring,” you say, perfectly deadpan.

His eyes narrow and he slides his foot up so it rests on your thigh. “Am I?”

You have to fight to keep your face serious. “Completely ordinary. Utterly unoriginal. Absolutely a- ” You catch his foot just before it can kick you in the crotch and pull. He slides of the table, flailing, and you almost lose your grip on him - lucky he’s a lightweight.

He ends up astride your lap, warm and close and heavy and you’re still not over the fact that you can just  _do_ this, no fear of repercussions.

He winds his fingers in your hair and pulls. “Do you want me to give you something to remember me by?’ he whispers against your throat.

You shiver and let him tilt your head back. “Please.”

“Please yes?” he murmurs. “Or please no?”

You grab a handful of his hair and pull his head back in response. He licks his lips. “ _Yes_ ,” you say. “Want me to return to favour?”

He laughs and lunges. The chair topples over and you hit the ground hard, and Jim rolls off just in time. He pulls you in by your shirt. “Go on then,” he growls, hands already on your skin.

“You’re going to get carpet-burned,” you say, undoing his belt as quickly as you can.

“Do I look like I care? Get on with it, Seb.”

You wrestle with trouser buttons and zippers and underwear.

Seb. You can’t remember the last person who called you that. Still, it beats  _sweetie-pie_.

He pushes against your shoulder and you roll over obediently, hands on his hips. He gets up on his knees and reaches behind the cushions of the nearby sofa.

“What are you - ”

“Aha.” He pulls out a tube with a flourish and you laugh.

“Seriously? Your keep  _lube_ in the  _couch_?”

“It never hurts to be prepared, Seb. Literally, in this case. Condom?”

“Front pocket,” you say, still grinning. He goes through your pockets of your discarded jeans and you try to push him back a little, bending your leg.

“Stop wriggling,” he says, going through the other pocket.

“Just trying to save us time.”

“Well, you’re not. There’s no need to change position.” He finds the condom and crouches over you on all fours. “The mood is striking me,” he says confidentially.

“What do you - oh.”  You honestly don’t care who tops, but... Well, it’s new. “Give us the lube, then.”

He pushes the tube in your hand and puts both hands on your chest, the condom still between his fingers. You squeeze out a glob and hook your hand behind his thigh, pulling him a little closer.

“Any preferences?” you ask. “Quick, slow, gentle, hard?” Your fingers slide between his arse cheeks and he twitches.

“No need to hurry.”

“Right.” You push in and he clenches down,  _fuck_ he’s tight. “You, erm.”

“What,” he says, eyes closed.

“You  _have_  done this before, have you?”

His eyes fly open. “Really, Seb?’ he asks, smirking. “Are you worried you might  _overwhelm_ me? Or is it the thought of being the first man to penetrate my  _virginal_ ,  _unexplored_ body that’s -  _gah_.”

That shut him up. You crook your finger again and he moans, fingernails digging into your pectorals. “Just checking,” you say placidly. You pull out and add another squirt of lube before working in two fingers.

“It’s been a while,” he admits. “I forgot how...how this...”

“Yeah.” You push against the muscle, careful not to go too quick. Never mind how violent both of you get sometimes, this isn’t the time for it. Nor the place, when you think about it. “And you’re sure you won’t rather do this in the bedroom?”

“I’m not moving anywhere now,” he says. His left hand slides down and closes around your cock.

You bite your lip. “Careful,” you say, “you don’t want me to, er - ”

“Go off before the fun starts?”

“Basically.” You push in your third finger and his jaw clenches. You take his hip with your other hand. The muscles of his stomach are quivering, everything about him just  _screams_  tension. It reminds you of your first time - now there’s a disturbing thought - on all fours, too little lube, biting down on your arm to keep quiet.  _Hurts like buggery_ suddenly got a whole new meaning after that.

“I think that’ll do,” he says, eyes closed again.

“Jim...”

“What?”

 _Are you sure you want this_? Of course he is. Or  _I’ll be careful_ , and of course you will, ‘cause he asked and you always do what he asks you.

“Nothing.”

You pull your fingers out. He leans forward, pulls a tissue from his jacket lying nearby and hands it to you.

“Neat freak,” you say, amused.

“You were going to wipe them on the carpet, weren’t you? Don’t lie.”

And okay, he’s right, you probably would. Meanwhile he has rolled the condom onto your cock and changed position, his face blank with concentration.

“Easy,” you say, hand on his hip.

“I’m not a sixteen-year old,” he snaps.

You have a second to wonder - why sixteen? - and then he starts pushing down and your eyes roll back in your head, because dear sweet fucking  _God_ this feels good. There’s no point comparing, it’s just different, but -

Jim rocks forward and you groan. But this isn’t just about you. “Good?” you gasp, which is about as much you can manage by way of communication right now.

“Yes.”

It’s noticeable that he isn’t used to this. It takes a few tries before he finds something approaching a rhythm he likes. And his face as he moves, as he feels those little shocks of pleasure you know so well by now, it’s - so  _open_. undefended. And he’s allowing you to see it.

You push up onto one arm and pull him into a kiss. He doesn’t really respond at first, just opens up beneath your mouth, which is a little unnerving, but a nip at his bottom lip seems to wake him up. He takes your shoulder and kisses back with his usual intensity, which, well, he never does anything by half, Jim. You reach down and find his cock, which makes him gasp and clench, which makes you groan in turn; the wonderful feedback loop of anal sex.

“How - how much more time do you need?” you manage to ask.

“Keep doing  _that_  and I won’t need much,” he answers, panting.

“Good, ‘cause I’m going to - ”

He laughs breathlessly. “I know. You’re doing that thing with your f- _God_ , with your face.”

“What thing?" But your concentration is gone and he kisses you again, hands on your neck.

“Go on,” he whispers. “For me.”

And you do, ‘cause sometimes it really is that simple.

When the aftershocks have faded he’s shaking in your arms. You glance down - rock hard and leaking.

“Er, can you…?” you ask.

He pulls a face but goes up, pulls you out. You draw your hand over his stomach and he hisses – must be really damn close. You reach for his cock again but his hand shoots out and catches you around the wrist.

“Wait,” he says.

You stop your hand and peer at him. How the _hell_ does he still have this level of self-control at this stage? But you do as he says, put your hand on his hip instead and wait it out.

He’s frowning, panting, a drop of sweat sliding down over his forehead. You wipe it off with your thumb.

Finally he blinks and the frown disappears. “Yes?” you ask. He nods.

You sit up and pull him into a kiss by his neck, slide your hand down over his spine and lower, where he’s still slick and open from your cock, _god_. You push your finger in, take his cock with his other hand. His mouth falls open and he jerks forward, his fingers digging painfully into your shoulders.

He’s so close that it doesn’t need anything beyond one good slide of your hand. Once again he's quiet when he comes, that odd sense of surprise in his eyes. But he can't hide his body language, the sudden tensing of muscles, the twitching, the way he sags when he's finished.

You fall back onto the carpet and idly start licking your hand clean, keeping on careful eye on Jim. Is he freaking out, in a very subtle understated sort of way? He has closed his eyes, frowning. Fuck knows what’s going through his head right now, or what caused it. There’s nothing you can do but wait, really.

It takes a few moments before he goes back to normal, before he opens his eyes and smiles at you, relaxed again. You reach for his neck and he tips onto his side, collapsing half on top of you. Neither of you is much into snuggling but he does fit rather nicely against you.

“You’ve got a point,” you say after a while.

“Hm?”

“I  _am_ going to remember this.”

He yawns. “I am too. Good thing I have lots of pillows.”

You run your hand down his back. “Ah, is your little arse a bit sore?”

He nudges you in the ribs. “Shut up or I’ll show you what  _sore_  means.”

“Is that supposed to be a threat or an incentive?”

He bites at your collarbone and you squeeze his neck. He settles down after that, fingers picking curiously at the drying come on your chest. Funny how he’s both so fastidious and yet so obsessed with all things disgusting.

“I am going to miss you, you know,” you say after a while.

“I know. I’ll keep in touch. You’ll survive.”

“I always do.”

He pulls your arm off his shoulders and gets up. “Come on, make yourself presentable again, we have work to do.” He walks off, wearing only his shirt, which isn’t nearly long enough to cover him.

“And stop ogling my arse,” he says, not looking back.

You grin.

***

Baskerville turns out to be a bit of an ordeal. You spend the first day exploring the terrain, mapping the fences and walls. The security is beyond anything you’ve seen, and you’ve seen a  _lot_. But the rumours are promising: secret experiments, genetic engineering, mysterious prisoners... Nothing solid, of course, but stories like that always have some sort of truth buried in them.

You stride into the base itself on the second day. Good thing the army doesn’t invest in independent thought, ‘cause all it needs is a forged pass saying  _colonel_  and a few barked orders for them to let you in. But then again, you are pretty damn good at barking orders.

They show you around the main part of the base, but the high-security labs are out of bounds, even for you. Even careful needling of the privates doesn’t yield anything useful.

All in all it’s a bit of a disappointment, as you tell Jim on the phone that evening.

“Well, at least I know what the place looks like now,” he says. He sounds very calm, relaxed. Which is odd, you expected him to be at least a bit peeved about it all.

“You want me to keep prying? Doubt I’ll find much, but...”

“No, it’s alright. You can come back. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Sure, if traffic cooperates.” And then, because you’re missing him, because even the sound of his voice is enough to make you feel a little giddy, “Love ya, babes.”

“And you, sugarpuss,” he coos back. He continues in his normal voice, “Don’t get killed on the way here, will you?”

“Won’t. See you.” You end the call with a smile.

“Girlfriend?" someone asks. You turn around. It’s one half of the gay couple that owns this place. They’ve both been trying to find out what you’re doing here, and you’ve been dropping all sorts of hints, just to watch the expression on their faces as they process all that information.

“Boyfriend, actually,” you say. You can just about imagine Jim’s face if you would ever refer to him as your  _boyfriend_  in front of him.

The guy’s face brightens. “Really? And you’re going back to him tomorrow? Sorry, didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but...” He leans forward and pats your arm. “Don’t keep him waiting too long,” he says warmly. “You should treasure the time you have together.”

“Right.” You watch him leave, thoroughly amused. Not for the first time you wish Jim were here, because dear lord would he have fun with those two.

You put your phone back in your pocket and go upstairs.

***

Traffic turns out to be reasonable, and you’re back in Knightsbridge before dinnertime.

“Home,” you call out when you enter the flat. No reaction. The AC is off and it’s a little too warm to be comfortable. Maybe he went out?

You look around the room. His laptop is gone, but it wouldn’t be the first time he took it with him. You go to the other rooms. He isn't in the bedroom, either. The surveillance room is locked, which is a first. And the bathroom -

Several little cabinets are open, and his favourite straight razor is missing. You go back to the bedroom and look through the wardrobe. Some of his clothes are missing as well, even though it's hard to tell with a collection as massive as Jim's. Phone, gone. Charger, gone as well.

You get out your phone and call him. It goes straight to voicemail. “It’s me,” you say, looking around the bedroom. “I’m back. Where are you? Er, I’m... I’ll be back at mine. Call me, will you?”

You're left standing in the middle of the room, hands on your hips, feeling a bit of a prat. He wouldn't have just left you without a message, would he?

You scrawl a note, just in case –  _at my flat, call me –_ and leave, hands in your pockets, shoulders tense.

***

He doesn't call back.

You go back at first light the next morning and comb through the flat calmly and methodically, not giving in to your growing panic, even when a very thorough search gives you nothing. You leave another message on his phone. For one second you consider breaking down the door of the surveillance room, but, well, he probably locked it for a reason, didn't he?

You go to the window and put your hand on the glass, looking out.

He can’t have left. Not like this. You refuse to believe it.

***

The day passes painfully slowly. You loaf around, try to read, go looking for clues again. You cross half London to go back to your flat, only to leave again after maybe fifteen minutes. It is fucking hot in your own flat, after all, and Jim's place has AC. And that's the  _only_ reason you go back.

He still isn't there when you get back to Knightsbridge, and you curse and kick the wall, feeling like an idiot.

When night falls, you flop down on his bed, shoes still on - a childish act of defiance - and stare at the ceiling, trying to figure out what to do next.

Maybe it’s just another test, like all the ones before. You thought you were past all that, but maybe not. Maybe he still needs reassurance.

You kick your shoes off and try to get some sleep.

***

The day after you break into the surveillance room. The computers are all shut down, password-protected, but there are files lying around. His notes are coded, and you’re not nearly clever enough to decipher it, but there are other documents too. Things that look like bank receipts, financial documents, but they make about as much sense as the illegible notes.

You could go out, spread the word that you’re looking for Moriarty, but you doubt he would approve of that. The only sensible thing to do is to wait until he contacts you, even if it is bloody frustrating.

But beneath all the rational reasoning, there’s fear growing. You’ve been assuming he’s left of his own free will, but that isn’t entirely certain, is it? Sure, no signs of a fight, and the clothes and charger all point to  _voluntary_ , but still...

Unlikely. Much more probable that he just up and left, and forgot all about you.

“Selfish fucking bastard,” you mutter at the black screens.

***

On the fourth day you're so fucking sick of doing nothing that you go out for a two-mile run through Hyde Park. The physical exertion combined with the heat is enough to empty your head for a while. Runner’s high, a wonderful thing, and one you’ve missed the last few months.

But even you can’t keep running for that long without feeling the strain, so eventually you end up back at Knightsbridge, t-shirt sticking to your back with sweat, to face the inevitable emptiness. You stretch while you’re waiting for the lift to reach the top floor and once upstairs you unlock the door with clumsy fingers. And pause.

He's back.

Standing at the window in his shirtsleeves, hands in his pockets, Cole Porter playing in the background, casual as you like – as if he only disappeared for a few hours instead of four full days. He doesn’t even look at you.

It actually takes a few seconds before you can find words. “Where the  _fuck_ have you been?”

He turns his head and raises an eyebrow at you. “Why, were you worried?” he says, although he doesn't sound like he cares much either way.

“ _Yes, I fucking was._ ”

He goes completely still, a major warning sign, but you've spent too much time half-panicked to care. “Couldn't you have left a –”

But the rest of that sentence disappears because he has you against the wall, hands around your throat. “ _And who gave you the right to worry?”_ he screams, barely an inch from your face, the fucking _psycho_.

You break his hold and push him away. “You fucking did, when you chained me to your bed and called me  _yours,_ ” you shout back, shaking with fury. “Don't pretend this is  _my_  fucking problem!”

He attacks, fists flying. Jim is a lot tougher than he looks, and you may be stronger and bigger and better trained, but Jim has got pure insanity on his side, and the unpredictability of someone who only fights rarely. And no matter how angry you are with him, you don’t actually want to hurt him.

He somehow manages to floor you and you hit the coffee table. The glass breaks and there are shards everywhere, and this could get dangerous very quickly.

“Jim,” you say, holding up an arm in surrender. He aims a kick at your face that you only just manage to avoid. You grab hold of an ankle and pull him off balance, but he twists just in time and lands heavily on top of you. He fists your shirt and hits you in the face, once, twice. He's got a surprisingly strong right hook.

You block his next hit and flip him over, struggling to pin his arms to the floor. He pulls one hand free and goes for the throat again, cunning little shit. You wrestle him off, he scrabbles on the floor to get purchase, and somewhere along the ride he gets his knee between your legs.

You freeze at the sudden pressure, and he stops struggling too, if only briefly. He increases the pressure slightly and your hands tighten in his shirt. You can see his pupils dilate.

And because he's a devious little fuck, he takes advantage again and slams his palm under your chin, forcing your head back until you have to let him go or he’ll break your neck.

He doesn't waste a second and straddles you, punching you again. By the time you stop reeling from the impact he's already got your track bottoms and underwear pushed out of the way.

“The fuck?”

“Shut up,” he hisses.

You roll over, landing you on top. “What are you -”

“What does it look like I'm doing?” He somehow finds enough room for a quick jab at your ribs – a sore spot, you bruised two ribs when you fell off a fence in Baskerville – and while you're cursing his hand finds its way to your cock and okay, it's pretty clear where this is going.

You lean down for a kiss but he bites, hard enough to draw blood. You pull off, graze your teeth over the side of his throat. He throws his leg over your calf and pushes his hips up against yours, a movement so unrestrained and eager that it leaves you gasping. He  _wants_ you, that's fucking obvious, and that thought -

He grabs your collar and drags you to his mouth and you kiss him, hands in his hair. There's something sharp pressing into your elbow but you don't care, not when there's Jim clawing at you like an animal in heat. His free hand finds your shirt, and he braces himself and rips. His nails dig into the skin of your suddenly bare back and scratch down and you moan, mind blank, nothing left but a primal instinct to  _get closer_.

You pull your mouth from his and he fists your hair, tugs your throat to his lips. You rut frantically against his leg, too fucking _desperate_ for anything else. Not that he’s much better, all you’re aware of is the movement of his hips and back, constant unrefined perfect pressure. All subtlety left behind. He bites down again and his thigh presses hard against your cock and you spill all over his shirt, almost collapse on top of him. You only just manage to roll to the side to avoid crushing him.

You glance aside to check if you need to finish him off, but no, apparently, no need for that. You blink. When did he…? How far gone were you that you didn’t even notice him coming? So fucking drunk on him that you could think of nothing but your own pleasure, and no one else has ever had that effect on you.

You run your hands over your face. God, but you've missed him. It's only now you realise exactly how much. But he’s back now, that's all that matters. Even if he’s mental.

“What the fuck's  _wrong_ with you?” you ask, staring at the ceiling. It comes out a bit mangled, which means your nose is probably broken.

He's lying close enough that you can feel the movement of his ribcage when he laughs. “If I knew that, sweetheart, the world would be a much easier place.”

He sounds like he’s back to normal. What the hell made him fly off the handle like that? He’s always been unpredictable, but this...

But no, there’s no point in trying to decipher him.

He sits up and starts picking little pieces of glass from his clothes. You prod at your teeth with your tongue. One of your molars moves a bit too much when you push at it. Trip to the dentist, then. “So where were you, anyway?”

“Monaco.” His voice has gone normal again, calm and controlled. “Managing my bank accounts. Well, our bank accounts now, technically.”

You blink. “Don’t I need to be there in person for that sort of thing?”

“No, I have copies of all your official documents. I did have to fake your autograph a couple of times, though.”

You consider this, still revelling in post-coital bliss. On the one hand he basically stole your identity without informing you, but on the other hand he apparently did it so you can have access to his money, so it all evens out in the end. “Fair enough. But next time, leave a note or something, yeah?” You close your eyes and put your hands behind your head.

For a while, all you can hear is his breathing and the music. Considering you're lying on a carpet covered in sharp shards of glass, it's very peaceful. The next song starts playing and you smile when you recognise the lyrics.

_\- Night and day, you are the one. Only you beneath the moon and under the sun –_

“I should kill you, you know.”

It comes out of nowhere. You don't open your eyes. “Then why don't you?” you ask calmly.

You hear him getting up, hear the tinkle of the glass, feel his weight settle on you. Something sharp presses an inch or two below your ear.

Ah. So that’s what this is about. “Go on then,” you say, keeping your eyes closed.

He presses the fingers of his other hand carefully to the other side of your throat, next to your adam's apple, where you can feel the blood pumping.

“Your heartbeat's calm.”

“Is it?” You open your eyes and look at him. His eyes are brown, you  _know_  they're brown, but right now they look black as coal.

He puts his free hand on the floor next to your head and leans in, keeping the shard of glass steady against your throat. “What is it about you?” he whispers, close enough that his face is going blurry.

There isn't exactly much you can say to that. You reach up and put your hand on the side of his neck, thumb resting in the little hollow between his collarbones.

One slip of his hand and you're dead. You've seen enough nicked arteries to know there isn't much you can do in the way of first aid.

Just one slip.

He pushes off and stands up, tossing the shard casually over his shoulder. He offers you a hand up.

“Go on then,” he says. “We need to fix your nose.”

You take his hand and let him pull you upright. “We?”

“Someone professional. I don't want you to look like a boxer.” He smiles. “It would be a shame to ruin such a pretty nose.”

“Always the aesthete. Are you sure you’re not just keeping me around as eye-candy?”

He lets go of your hand and smirks. “And the sex. Don’t forget the sex.”

You laugh. “Oh, trust me, I don’t.”

You watch him leave for the bathroom. Once again it occurs to you that this really isn't normal behaviour and that most people would start running now, or at least get professional help.

_\- day and night, night and day -_

You follow him to the bathroom, grinning.

***

You would have gone straight to A&E, but Jim apparently has a private doctor.

“One who knows to keep her mouth shut,” he says absently, as you pull up the car in front of an ordinary-looking terraced house in Hammersmith. “Having people with gunshot wounds in hospitals often leads to annoying questions.”

“And you're sure she can be discreet?” You switch off the engine and he opens the door.

“Oh, yes, I'm sure.”

The door buzzes open only a few seconds after he has rung. You follow him down a smallish hallway to a waiting room. A woman in a white coat opens the door - forties, no make up, laugh lines around her mouth and forehead - and looks you up and down. “So you're the new one, eh?” she says. “Come on in.”

“We had a little accident,” Jim says smoothly, leading the way.

“Yeah love, I can see that.” She jerks her thumb at her examination table. “Take off your shirt and sit down.”

You unbutton your shirt and try to catch Jim's eye, because in all the time you've been working for him there has never been anyone who talks to him like that – well, talks like that and gets away with it. But Jim doesn't seem to mind.

She turns back to you. “Where d’you find this one then?’ she asks casually, addressing Jim. “Modelling agency? He’s got the jawline for it. Or - aha.” She gives the scar on your side a knowing look. “Soldier boy.”

Jim shrugs, running his fingers over the various pieces of medical equipment on display. “Fit, can handle a weapon, and good at obeying orders. The perfect package.”

“I might object to that last one,” you say.

“Oh, the boy’s got bite, has he?” She prods at your cheekbone. “You’re in luck, it’s a simple fracture, no surgery required. Ever had your nose broken before?”

“Er, once, when I was fifteen.”

Jim raises his eyebrows. “Really? How?”

“Rugby.”

The doctor snorts. “Should’ve guessed. Whoever invented rugby has a lot to answer for. Alright, lie back. I’ll give you something for the pain and then we’ll get down and dirty.”

She keeps up a steady stream of cheerful chatter while she works, no nervousness whatsoever. Jim is being surprisingly casual as well, hardly acting at all.

“There,” she says when she’s finished. “All pretty again.” She cocks her head at you. “Although I have a feeling I’ll be seeing you again.” She turns to Jim. “You. Out.”

And amazingly he stands up and leaves without any protest. He ignores your questioning look and you’re left staring at the closing door in puzzlement. Why the  _hell_ is he allowing all this?

“Right,” she says once he’s out of the door. “Should I be worried? Is he abusing you?”

You turn back at her in surprise. She’s frowning with something that could be concern. “Depends on your definition, I suppose,” you say.

“Are you telling me he broke your nose consensually?”

“I hit back. Look, it isn’t...” You weigh your words. “Things get violent sometimes, but I don’t mind, and it’s not like he’s doing it as, I don’t know, punishment? Manipulation?”

“Then what does he do it for?”

Good question. You give it some thought. “This time because he, er, went a bit mental, I think. But most of the time it’s just a game.”

She gives you a look that could cut through bone. “Masochist?”

You blink. “I, er, yeah. And look, if it ever goes too far I can floor the little bastard in two seconds flat. I was in the SAS, I know how to fight.”

She crosses her arms and sighs. “Yeah, I suspected as much. Properly fucked up, aren’t you?”

“Is that the official medical term?’ you ask with a smile.

“Piss off and tell him I’ll send the bill.”

You slide off the table and take your shirt back, and give her a considering look. “Why are you doing this?’ you ask.

She doesn’t turn around. “None of your sodding business, that’s why. Get out, love, I charge by the minute.”

You go back to the waiting room, feeling a little thrown. Jim is waiting, looking at a couple of pamphlets. “So, did you report me?’ he asks, looking up with a smirk.

“I should have.” You get your cigarettes and tap out two. “Just to see the look on your face. How come she’s so...”

“Undaunted? That’s just how she is. And you don’t want a doctor with shaking hands, do you?”

There’s a story there, you can tell. But he obviously doesn’t want to share. You hand him a lit cigarette and he takes a long luxurious drag. “You could still run, you know,” he says with a sideways look at you.

You give him a sly smile. “Why the fuck would I want to do that?”

***

You don't run, of course you don't run. You do the very opposite, practically moving in with him, only going back to your own place to change clothes.

In fact, you spend so little time at your old shitty little flat that you're not at all surprised when you come home one of those rare nights when Jim doesn't require your presence, only to find a scorched ruin where your flat once was.  _Gas leak_ , the fireman tells you. You get out your phone.

“ _Hrrm_?” Jim growls down the line, which either means  _I'm bored_  or  _I'm about to kill you_. Occasionally both. In this case, you're willing to bet on the former.

“Would you mind if I crashed at your place for a bit? Mine seems to have exploded.”

Jim makes a considering noise. “We-ell, I suppose you can find  _some_  way to earn your keep.”

“I can think of a few,” you answer, biting down on your grin.

***

“By an amazing stroke of luck I had your clothes brought here yesterday,” he says when you step out of the lift into the hallway. “At least, the ones worth keeping. There were a few things that must have gone up in flames,  _such_ a shame.” He pulls a mock-sympathetic face.

Twisted fuck probably meant it as a romantic gesture - it definitely fits him better than a bouquet of flowers or a surprise weekend in Paris. And you should probably care more that your home is gone, but it isn’t like you were that attached to it in the first place, so.

You throw him the little box. “Here, housewarming present.” You spotted it in the shop window of a fancy clothing store in King's Road. “Made me think of you,” you add, smirking to keep the sweetness out of it.

He flips the lid open and pulls out the tie, admiring the little skulls. He always does that, a little touch that doesn't quite fit with the rest. Skulls on a tie, cufflinks in the shape of guns, a crossbones tie pin. He likes the way people don't notice them at first, the way their eyes catch when they do, surprised and a bit uneasy.

“You know me so well,” he gushes, and he might be taking the piss but the thing is, you do know him. Or start to know him, at least.

He holds the door open for you and you step inside, wandering over to the picture window while Jim puts the tie in the wardrobe. God forbid he would leave it lying about, cluttering up the flat.

There's an Aston Martin pulling up down below, the next-door neighbours, an absurdly wealthy businessman and his young, blonde mistress. You can't see her very well from up here but you’ve seen her before, you know what she looks like: high heels and too much cleavage showing, fingers and throat and wrists adorned with diamonds worth a small fortune. A  _kept woman_ , but you're in no position to sneer at her, are you?

From whore to live-in toyboy, how you have risen in status.

Jim comes back and stands behind you. He wrenches your collar out of the way and licks at the not-quite-faded mark he left there a few days ago. “Where are you?’ he asks in"your ear.

“Down below.”

Jim stands on tiptoe and leans his chin your shoulder. “Ah,” he says as he spots the blonde. “Considering your position? Worrying about terminology?”

“At least I don’t ask for fancy jewelry.”

“Just expensive weapons.” His hand closes around your biceps. Below the blonde slips her arm around her lover’s expansive waist.

There are worse things in life than being Jim’s - Well, just Jim’s.

“Housewarming sex?” you ask.

He bites down on your neck and you shiver. “I have something in mind. Go to the bathroom.”

***

About an hour later you're on your side on the bed with Jim spooned behind you, making an inventory of your scars. He’s done it before, fingers exploring the pale twisted skin, the faded lines, but never quite so  _thoroughly_. It’s left you in an odd mood, made you extremely aware of your own skin, your nerve endings, your reactions.

Besides, his other hand is busy elsewhere and that isn’t helping you to stay composed either.

He curls his fingers around your upper arm. It's by far the ugliest of your scars, puckered and twisted. “Where did you get this?”

“While I was in Bosnia with the SAS,” you say. “Bastard with a knife crept up on me, and it got infected. Hurt like hell.”

He hums and draws his hand down to your waist and hip. “And these?”

“IED, 2001,” you say, even though you're sure he has deduced that one on his own. “My entire side was littered with shrapnel, I couldn't walk properly for months.”

He hums and a third finger wriggles in to join his other two inside of you. It goes in easily enough, barely feels uncomfortable. As it should, considering how often you’ve been taking it up the arse lately.

“And this?” His free hand touches your knee.

“Er, I was five, fell off an elephant, if you can believe it.”

“And I know about that one.” He nudges his leg against your calf; the scar from the bullet the first time you met him. “And...” He reaches for your arm and you pull away instinctively.

“Seb,” he warns. “I'm asking you.”

You push up and look over your shoulder at him. “And are you going to tell me where you got that scar on your shoulder?” you ask, eyes on the thin white line beneath his collar bone. It’s old, which means Jim’s past, which means he doesn’t talk about it. You didn’t dare bring it up before.

“You don't get to ask,” he says calmly. “Now tell me.”

“Fine.” You turn back and look at the wall. “First year at Eton, I had a weird accent, didn't know things everyone else knew.” Jim's thumb brushes the old scar. “I was too scrawny to fight back and too stupid to keep my head down.”

“And?”

“ _And_  one of them got creative. We were in the kitchen, there was a stove... You do the maths.”

“Poor boy,” he murmurs against the nape of your neck.

“I got back at him, though.”

“I meant him.” His hand goes to your back. “This?”

He twists his fingers inside of you and you bite your lip.

“Sebastian.” And he's still being so very, very gentle, it's getting on your nerves.

“Belfast, IRA, bullet. First time I was hit, actually.”

“In the back?”

“Urban warfare. There were no neat little battle lines.”

His little finger slips in with the rest and you groan. His hand pets your stomach. “You're going tense again.”

You shift onto your elbow. “You’re about to put your entire fist up my arse, I think a little nervousness is warranted.”

“It's not helping,” he sings, reaching for the lube.

“I'm  _trying_ , alright, I'm - ”

“Shush,” he says, meant to be reassuring, only it's Jim, so it comes out more sinister than anything else.

You focus on your breathing, your oldest, most trusted trick, and make a conscious effort to relax. He keeps his fingers carefully still, but you can hear him emptying the tube in his hand. It takes a lot of concentration to get in the right headspace.

“See? It's that easy,” he says, once you're there.

“It is  _now_.”

“You can take it.” His hand twists, knuckles brushing against you. “Can't you?”

He  _pushes_ , and your arm flails back automatically, hand closing above his wrist in attempt to stop him. He does, much to your surprise, but he doesn't move away either.

“Let go, Seb,” he says. Not angry, not threatening, just – calm. Inexorable.

And slowly you peel off your shaking fingers, let go of him, tuck your arm back to your chest. The tip of his thumb joins his other fingers.

“And this?” His hand sweeps between your shoulder blades. “Where did you get this one, Sebastian?”

“Some psycho with a knife wanted to make a point,” you say. He laughs and scrapes his teeth over the scar.

“Ready?”

“Hold on.” You breathe in, slowly. It’s going to happen, whatever you do, but him giving you this tiny bit of control somehow makes it even worse. Making you think you have a choice, when of course you haven’t.

God damn Jim and his fucking mind games.

He puts his arm loosely around your waist, holding you. You give a quick nod.

It feels like it shouldn’t be possible, and it hurts, and you come this close to trying to stop him again. But Jim’s arm is still around your waist, his hand spread over your stomach and you concentrate on that instead, and on the fact that Jim knows what he’s doing and that you have to trust him,  _have to_ , because if you don’t trust him you can’t stay with him and if you can’t stay with him your entire life will fall apart.

And once the first pain fades away it feels sort of amazing.

“Told you so,” Jim says smugly.

“No one like a smart-arse, Jim,” you say, although you're panting in a way that's more desperate than scolding.

“Really?” He curls his fingers and it feels like – unlike anything you've felt before, like every nerve in your body is set alight. The noise you make sounds more like a high-pitched whine than anything else, and you can hear Jim chuckle.

“I like you like this,” he says softly. “Open. Vulnerable. Completely at my mercy.”

He moves his hand again and you see stars and simply forget how to speak for a few seconds. You scrabble at the sheets, feeling the fabric tear slightly. “I'm  _always_  at your mercy.”

“True.” He moves his other hand up so it's resting just over your heart, which is beating overtime. “Say it.”

“Fuck, why do – You  _know_  – ” You squeeze your eyes shut, close your hand around his arm, anything to keep some kind of control.

“I want to hear you say it.”

“Yours,” you gasp. “Body and soul, Jim, you know that.”

“And don't forget it,” he says steadily. He curls his fingers and pleasure sparks again, only this time it builds and crashes over you, a fucking  _tsunami_ of an orgasm, a whole-body near-religious experience.

It leaves you shaking and speechless, and when he starts pulling his fingers every movement sends aftershocks of pleasure, and it's almost too much.

It takes a very long time before you regain your composure.

Once you can think straight again, you reach over your shoulder and pull Jim in a sloppy, unrefined kiss. “Happy now?” you mumble against his throat.

“Delirious,” he says drily.

You flop down on your back, boneless and sleepy. “You know, if you wanted me to move in, you could have just asked.”

“And where – ”

“–  _would be the fun in that_ ,” you chant along. Because Jim will never take the easy road if there's fun to be had on the other one, even if that one is paved with shards of broken glass and barbed wire. It's almost a weakness of his.

Your eyelids are getting heavy. “I've never had a home before. Not propr'ly, anyway. Somewhere nice.”

“ _Nice_?” Jim laughs.

You yawn, and Jim switches off the lights. It's never really dark in London, always the shine of street lights and cars and window displays. You miss the stars, sometimes.

“Go to sleep, Seb. I think you've earned it.”

You close your eyes. Jim needs his space to sleep, but his bed is more than large enough to be comfortable.

After a while, an ankle crosses over yours and you smile in the darkness.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! In the next chapter the honeymoon period is over and Moran learns what it really means to be Jim Moriarty's second in command. Hopefully up next Wednesday.


	6. The Shadow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which Seb Learns The Importance Of Reputation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for explicit sex, emotional manipulation, D/s, graphic violence, brief bit of gore, PTSD, torture, murder

**6\. The Shadow**

_I have been your guilty pleasure_  
 _I have been your lack of restraint_  
 _Apply the perfect pressure_  
 _To your sweet subordinate_  
 _(Disappear Here - Hybrid)_

 

There are advantages to being the top dog, the man in charge, the  _big cheese_ , as Jim insists on calling it, little weirdo. Normally sitting on your backside and letting the other people do the heavy lifting - literally, in this case - would be one of those advantages, but you’re not that big of an arsehole.  _Never ask your men to do something you won’t do_ is something you live by.

Jim calls it sentimentality, and likes to suggest it’s got something to do with making up for all your aristocratic ancestors ordering other people around. You just think it’s common sense.

One of the men hands you another case. “What’s in these, anyway?” he asks.

You raise your eyebrows. In the corner of your eye you catch several of the others making frantic  _shut up_  gestures at him.

“Right, sorry, never mind,” he stammers.

“You’ll go far,” you say solemnly. You raise the crate a little higher and head for the truck.

Truth is, you don’t know what’s in the crates either. Jim said something about art, but you forgot to ask for details. All you know that it’s a lot, and that getting caught with it would get you at least ten years.

You deposit your crate on the flatbed and rub your hands together. It’s still a bit chilly this early in the morning and your fingers are starting to go numb. Not that it really matters, it’s not like you need to do any refined -

Someone pulls the big doors open and you’ve got your gun trained at him before you can blink. It’s the lookout, eyes wide, breathing hard.

“What the fuck is it?” you snap, holstering your gun.

He takes a deep breath. “The police on their way, we need to fucking  _run._ ”

It takes a full two seconds before any of you can process the words, but then all hell breaks loose. All of your men drop the crates they’re holding and sprint for the exit, smart lads.

You whirl around, hand in your hair. Some of the crates are broken, there’s part of a vase sticking out of the wood. There are still at least twenty crates waiting to be loaded onto the truck. There’s no way in hell you can move all those in time, and you can’t leave them here because they might be traced back, which means you’re summarily  _fucked_.

Think, for fuck’s sake,  _think_. What would Jim do? The evidence is there, it can’t be removed in time so -

Of course. There’s a can of petrol in the truck and the crates are wooden, so those should go up in flames rather nicely. Although maybe just a fire isn’t enough to completely eradicate it, you would ideally need something bigger...

And you’re standing in a disused chemistry factory. God, sometimes you really are an idiot.

The clock is ticking, but it takes only a few minutes before you find what you need, and then it’s just a matter of dousing the crates in petrol and laying a fuse. And running very very fast.

The blast knocks you off your feet, and you land hard on the gravel,  ears ringing, the palms of your hands feeling like they’re on fire and

_opening your eyes seeing the fractured bloody mess that was the face of your corporal two inches from yours you can’t move your leg everything hurts everything burns you should have seen the tripwire should have -_

You blink away the images - now’s not the time to go flashbacking -  and scramble upright. The building has gone up in flames, no chance in hell they’ll find any evidence there. You wipe the worst of the soot and dirt off your clothes and head for the rendezvous point, whistling softly.

***

Someone grabs your shoulder. Your elbow is halfway to your assailant’s stomach before you recognise the smell of wool and aftershave, the grip of his fingers, and then  _Don’t Attack Jim_ quickly becomes the overriding command. You manage to stop yourself just in time.

He pushes you to your knees and you go down without resistance. You try to look up but he takes your jaw from behind, fingers sharp in your cheeks, and turns your head to the horizon. 

“Why is that building on fire?” he hisses. You don’t need to see his face to know how pissed off he is.

“Hgh,” you choke.  His fingers loosen a little. “Hiding the evidence.”

“From?” He lets go and steps aside.

“The police, someone must’ve tipped them off.”

“The  _police_?”

You look up at him.  The last time you saw him angry like that you ended up with your back full of broken glass. “Look, I had to think quickly. I didn’t...” You trail off. He’s staring at the burning building, jaw clenched, knuckles white.

“Tell me, Sebastian,” he says through his teeth, “do you hear any sirens?”

“I - ”

He closes his eyes with a pained expression. “The tip-off was a  _fake,”_  and the last word comes out screaming.

Fuck. Fuck fuck  _fuck,_ so you blew up a fortune for nothing. You should’ve checked, should’ve asked for more details but instead you just assumed your lookout was telling the truth, like a naive beginner.

Jim runs his hands over his face and starts pacing. You get up from your knees and try to take up as little space as possible.

Failure. Christ, you can hardly remember the last time you fucked up like this, and the sick sinking feeling in your stomach is one you’re unaccustomed to.

Jim suddenly stops and turns to you. “You're leaving.”

_'What_?” You spin around. He can’t mean - He  _wouldn’t._

“Damage control,” he snaps, spitting the words out like they’ve done him personal offence. “There's an operation running in Manchester. Go there, take charge.”

“Me?”

He glares at you. “No, the other gullible idiot I'm employing.” He starts up again, striding up and down. “This changes everything. And altering the plan halfway is almost guaranteed to make everyone panic, so I need you to go and play overseer. Besides,” he sneers, “I'm getting tired of seeing your vacuous face all day, anyway.”

You turn and slam your hands against the wall. He can’t do this, treat you like a - a  _dog_  that needs to be punished.

“Ah, sulking now, are we?” Jim says, something cruel and biting in his voice. “You’re leaving tonight.”

You close your eyes. “For how long?”

“As long as is needed.”

You look over your shoulder. He isn’t smiling.

***

He puts you up in a five star hotel. No need to ask why, or to think that he's forgotten your preferences. Jim doesn't  _forget_.

The first thing you do is set up the laptop and the webcam, as per his instructions. You do angle it so the bed is not in view, ‘cause you don't want the little fuck to watch you sleep, especially not with the dreams you’re having now.

You fall down on the admittedly very comfortable bed and examine your hands. The palms are still skinned from where you hit the ground after the explosion.

You had been pleased with yourself, proud, for thinking up the perfect solution to a difficult problem. How the hell were you supposed to know the lookout was lying, anyway? The people you work with are supposed to be reliable, you don’t have  _time_ to interrogate everyone who thinks he’s seen something.

But apparently you should have known, ‘cause it’s obvious that this is supposed to be punishment. You don't mind pain, you have no trouble with humiliation, but sending you away from him like this?

Jim the sadist. Trust him to know exactly what hurts you most.

The computer gives a cheery ping and you get up from the bed. It takes a few tries before you can accept the communication request, and when Jim's face finally appears he looks seriously annoyed.

“I'm not great at computer stuff, I've told you that,” you say, looking between the blinking blue light of the webcam and the screen.

“So it would seem. I'm sending the details to you now. Think you'll manage to find those?”

_I'm not stupid_ , you want to snap, but getting defensive is probably the worst thing you can do right now. “Yes, I'll manage. And I'll let you know if I don't.”

It seems to be the right thing to say, because the tension around his eyes and mouth fades a little. “No more mistakes, Sebastian.”

“No.” You look at him, and even though he's miles away it feels like you could reach out and touch him if you wanted to.

“Seb?” He raises an eyebrow.

“I'm sorry,” you say, and he blinks. “Sorry that I – that I didn't do what you expected me to, I suppose.”

“Yes,” he says, after a second of frozen surprise.  “Just do as I tell you and it'll be alright. I'll contact you again tomorrow.”

“Right. See you then.”

He tilts his head, studying you, and then he smiles, sudden and totally unreadable. He switches the camera off immediately after that, leaving you feeling blindsided.

***

The operation turns out to be a series of smallish jobs that seem to be unrelated but have to be performed in a very specific timeframe. Steal the contents of the safe  _after_  the formal complaint for embezzling is issued and people are bound to get a little suspicious. Jim was right, this needs supervision.

But as much as you’re used to bossing other people around, this is something different. It’s organising, and long-term goals, and coordinating. Even in the army you were never in charge of the overarching stuff, you just executed your missions and that was that. No wonder he's constantly checking up on you.

“So they're all there?” he asks on the phone.

You glance at the crew, mooching around in the main room. “Yeah. Six of 'em, right? They look capable enough.”

“They should be, considering what they're being paid.”

He sounds a little calmer today, more relaxed. Cheerful, even. Not that that means you have to stop watching your step

“Are you smoking?” he asks.

You pause, cigarette halfway to your mouth. “How the hell did you know that? There are no cameras around here, I checked.”

“Maybe I can read your thoughts after all,” he says smugly.

“Or maybe I’m just that predictable. Anything else?”

“What are you wearing?”

You roll your eyes. “Fuck off. I am not having phone sex with you during a job.”

He laughs. “Spoilsport. Alright then, off you go. Be a good boy, Sebastian.”

You hang up with a smile and drop the butt of your cigarette in a puddle. When you turn around you see one of tonight’s men leaning in the doorway, watching.

“What?” you say, raising your eyebrows.

He shakes his head and stands aside. When you pass him, he almost visibly recoils. Strange.

“Right,” you say, clapping your hands together. “Two men on surveillance, two on perimeter, and two with me. If everything goes according to plan, we can be in and out in thirty minutes and you lot can get home in time for the match. I’m rooting for Chelsea, personally.”

No one reacts. Not even a fragment of the loyal outrage you were trying to provoke, no amusement, not anything. Blank-eyed fuckwits, the lot of them, what the hell did Jim saddle you up with?

“Everyone knows their places? No questions?” They watch you with wary eyes, as if you’re an explosive they’re waiting to go off. “Good. Let’s get going, then.”

But it isn’t until afterwards, when you clap one of them on the shoulder and he jumps as if you’ve hit him, that you recognise the silence and wariness and constant attention as  _fear_.

***

You’re used to people being a bit jumpy around you. You’ve always had a reputation, at school, in the army, afterwards. And Jim says that it’s got something to do with how you look as well, the way you stand, your smile.

It often comes in handy, having your men be a little wary around you, but you’ve rarely had anyone run screaming from you. Which is what the last three crews you’ve worked with here seemed to be close to doing, as if you showed up dripping with blood and brandishing a bazooka.

Must be something in the air.

You check out of the hotel and get outside, taking a deep breath of polluted smog. Manchester feels like London's dirtier, down-on-its-luck cousin, the ghost of its great industrial past still hanging around. And luckily it's got no shortage of pubs, ‘cause right now you'd choose anything over the sterility of your hotel and its artificially polite staff. Plus, booze might help with the sodding nightmares.

You open the door of the first pub you find and step into a smoke-saturated noisy den. It's a proper old-fashioned pub, muted lighting, dirty tables, mostly men sitting around. If you asked the barman for a Manhattan he would probably shank you over the bar. Or at least spit in your drink.

You lean on the bar, order a pint, look around. After being side-eyed for an entire day it's a bit of a relief to be unremarkable again. The men don't give you more than a cursory glance, they seem harmless enough, but in the corner table –

In the corner someone is watching you very intently. Half-hidden by the smoke and the shadows, but the short dark hair, the broad shoulders...

It’s been almost three years since you last saw Sophia. You give her a wave and go over.

“Out of all the gin joints in all the world,” you drawl, sitting down next to her.

You're expecting a smart reply, a cutting remark, but she just gapes at you, as if she is another of those brainless idiots you’ve been spending the last week with.

You raise an eyebrow. “You do remember me, don't you?”

“ _Remember_ you?” she says, choking. She puts her glass down too hard and the beer sloshes over the side. A couple of men nearby give the both of you annoyed looks.

You peer at her. “Are you alright? You're looking a bit...”

“Am I alright, he asks.” She throws a wild look around the room. You look as well, trying to find whatever threat she's searching for. Nothing obvious.

“No, I mean it, is something wrong?”

“Is something - ” She takes a deep breath. “Is this your idea of a twisted fucking joke? I don't know what the fuck I'm supposed to have done but at least get on with it, you bastard.”

“Get on with what?” And then the penny drops. “You think I'm here to kill you? Love, I'm just here for a drink. Honestly.”

She doesn’t look convinced. “Tell that to fucking Glenson.”

“What?” you say, surprised. “What about him, what did he – ”

“Ended up floating face-down in the Thames, that’s what. Do you think I’m - ”

“I don’t have anything to do with that,” you say sharply, because you don’t, you didn’t, you’d know if Jim had -

Or maybe you wouldn’t.

“I’m just here for a drink,” you repeat, enunciating slowly.

“Yeah, you expect me to fucking believe that?” She leans forward and hisses, “ _Moriarty,”_ as if that explains everything.

And it does, in a way. Say  _Moriarty_ now and you think of hands on your shoulders and his amused smile and the way he shouts at the television when he’s bored, but not too long ago  _Moriarty_ was an all-encompassing terrifying shadow.

It’s strange to think that other people still see him that way.

You look back at Sophia. She's shaking. Shaking and staring at you like a deer in the headlights and you used to joke with this woman, she called you an arrogant dickhead with a smug smile. And still she's looking at you as if you pulled a gun on her and you can’t understand  _why_.

You try again. “I don’t – look, I’m just working for him in person now, but that doesn’t change - ”

“It does.” She takes another deep breath and even though she's still terrified she seems to find some courage. “Look, I know about Moriarty, and I know the longest anyone’s ever lasted with him is three months. And you’ve had, what, two years?”

“Approximately. I’m just good at my job, you know that.”

“Fuck that. It isn’t about professionalism, it’s - I don’t know. I don’t know what it is you do that keeps him happy. I don't  _want_ to know.”

“It's - ” and then you stop and actually  _think_ about what she's saying. Why is it that you're still alive, why does Jim trust you? 'Cause you do what he tells you to, 'cause you don't try to hide things from him, but it's more than that, isn't it?

“But I know one thing,” Sophia says. Her voice is shaking with suppressed fear but she meets your eyes straight. She always was a brave one. “It's not normal.  _You_ are not normal. You can't be.”

_Not normal_. God knows how many times you thought that about Jim, but - but you're not like him, are you?

But Sophia seems to think so. She’s still scared, and nothing you can do is going to change that, you can see that now.

You get your wallet – she tenses again, obviously thinking you're reaching for something else – and slap a note onto the table. “The drink's on me, Miss Kratides. For old times' sake.”

You can feel her eyes following you all the way to the door.

***

When you get back to your room there's a notification blinking on the screen of the laptop: Jim, wanting access.

You accept and sit down, head still full of Sophia and your men and their fucking terror.

“Someone took their time,” Jim says, sounding a little annoyed.

“I went for a drink.”

“Oh, did you? Well, in that case, I'll - ” He stops and squints at you. “What happened?”

“Sorry?”

“Don't  _pretend,_ Seb, it doesn't suit you.”

You look out of the window. It’s raining again. “Remember my old boss? Glenson?”

“Yes, what of him?”

“He's dead.” You look back. Jim is leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, frowning. He doesn't seem especially surprised by your statement.

“And?”

“Did you have anything to do with that?”

He gives a one-shouldered shrug. “He got in the way.”

So Sophia was right, after all. And he’s being so  _casual_ about all this. Yes, alright, you’ve seen death, you know death, but -

He cocks his head. “Why are you so bothered by this?”

“I – I don’t know. I liked him, is all. He wasn’t as much of an idiot as most of the others.”

But the answer doesn’t seem to satisfy him. You see him leaning his elbows on his desk, frown growing deeper. “What  _happened_ , Sebastian?”

You avert your eyes again. “I met that Kratides woman. She was  _scared_ of me.”

“Of course she was, why wouldn’t she be?”

“She didn’t use to be.”

“Ah.” You glance at him. The frown has disappeared. He smiles and looks down, no explanation.

“Did you kill him because of me?” you ask.

“Partly. He had outlived his usefulness either way, and I didn’t want him to run around knowing things about you.”

You've never been responsible for someone's death before. Well, of course you have, but never indirectly. Nobody has ever killed  _for_  you.

It's a strange feeling.

He leans back again. “Save the nostalgia for later, Sebastian. You have work to do, remember?”

“Yes, yes, I know.”

He starts talking about break-ins and assassinations, and it's easy enough to ignore all the confusing stuff and focus on what you do best. And besides, there's something incredibly attractive about Jim when he talks about his plans. He comes to life, in a way.

Or maybe you just miss the bastard.

***

Now that you know what it is, it’s obvious. The way they do everything to avoid your eyes, the way their whispers stop when you come into the room, it’s  _textbook_.

“I’ll need three volunteers,” you say, and they all start staring intently at the floor or the ceiling. “Oh, for fuck’s sa- you, you and you.” You pick out three at random. “Put those on.” You point at the police uniforms. “Once the truck’s offroad you lot are going to drive it back here. No one will look twice at the professional-looking men in uniform dealing with the car accident. Got it?”

Nods and downcast looks. They start stripping off and change into the uniform.

It might sound funny, those tough blokes shaking in their boots because you glower at them, but it’s annoying too. For one thing, none of them will speak to you, which means you spend the next half hour bored to death. And toying with your phone, trying to convince yourself that calling Jim is a good idea. It isn't, of course. You can just about imagine what he'd do if you'd disturb him without his permission.

You wander over to the window where the sniper is lying in position and throw a look at the wind gauge. It’s calm, barely a breeze. You lean sideways and try to get a look at the road. It isn’t that far, shouldn’t be hard. Your finger is itching for the trigger. It feels weird, seeing someone else do it.

“Can you stop fucking  _looming_?” the sniper barks.

Ah, look who’s developed a bite. Although he seems to regret it already, judging by the way he suddenly freezes. “Er. Sir,” he stammers. “You, erm, can you... Sorry sir?”

You can feel the others watching you. You raise your foot and put it lightly against his neck. “Do that again,” you say pleasantly, “and I’m going to  _stamp down_. Got it?”

He swallows. “Yessir.”

“Good. Pay attention, he’s here.” You give him a nudge against his throat and step back.

He takes an inordinately long time to find his shot. You staring fixedly at the back of his head probably doesn't help, but the truck he's supposed to aim for is driving fast and if he waits any longer the target will be out of view.

“No,” he finally says.

“What?”

“It's too far, the shot's impossible.”

He raises his rifle, the truck moves in the distance, and the job is fucked unless –

You snatch the rifle from his hands and kick him out of the way. As much as being a sniper is about finding your focus, about patience and taking time, sometimes it's this.

Sometimes it's instinct.

You drop down hard on the floor, barely take time to aim, just put the rifle underneath your collarbone and pull the trigger, blood singing in your veins, because this,  _this_ , is what you're supposed to do, not standing back and watching, fuck Jim and his fucking orders. The kick from the rifle shockwaves through your bones and even from this distance you can hear the truck go off road, you don't miss, not ever.

You lower the rifle, panting as if you've just run a marathon, as if you've just had sex. It feels like that too, glorious proud fiery  _joy_.

“Fuckin' hell,” someone says. You jump up and whirl around, and your crew takes a collective step backward. Still scared. Probably even more scared, now you’re the man with the improbable aiming skills.

You grin at them. “And that's how you do it, lads. Now move, we aren't done yet.”

They leave, hurrying just in case the real coppers show up.

***

The weather turns nasty about halfway through the evening and by the time you reach the hotel you’re soaked and dead on your feet. Supervising is a lot more work than it sounds and your shoulder is aching from where you held the rifle - there had been no time to align it properly, you’re lucky you didn’t dislocate the joint. A nice hot shower and then bed, that’s what you need, although…

Well. The last few nights haven’t exactly been _easy_.

You unlock the door, reach for the light switch, and stop. There's something off. You squint into the darkness, letting your eyes adjust, and your hand is halfway to your shoulder holster before you recognise the shadowy shape near the window.

“If you’d told me you were coming, I would have ordered champagne,” you say.

A rustle of cloth, and then, “You really are quite good, aren't you, Sebastian?”

You switch on the lights. “The best.”

Jim snorts. His dark suit is still a bit wet at the shoulders but his hair is dry, which means he must have been inside for quite a long time. Waiting for you. You hang your coat over a chair and try to stop the slight tremor in your hands.

“You look tired,” Jim says.

“Haven’t been sleeping well.” You unbuckle your shoulder holster and put it on the table. What you want to do is grab him and get the two of you to the nearest horizontal surface, but if he’s still pissed off that’s tantamount to a death warrant.

He stays still, watching you. “Too tired to follow orders?” he asks softly.

“Sorry?”

“The sniper rifle.”

“The sniper was an incompetent moron. I just wanted to make sure the job got done.”

“So you took initiative. Again.”

Fuck. But did he really expect you just to stand back and watch the other guy miss?

Although he doesn't look that put out by it. Not that he's ever easy to read, but considering that last time he had been screaming like a maniac...

“I did what I had to do,” you say carefully. “Like I’ve done before.”

“Yes.”

He pushes off the wall and strides to you. You almost back away, ‘cause his eyes are blazing, but – but that’s not _anger_ , is it? He stops right in front of you, breathes in, and then he grabs your neck and pulls you down into a heated kiss and you think, _thank god_.

His nape is hot under your hand. Your thumb brushes over a patch of stubble on his jaw and you put your other hand on his waist, feel the tension there – you always forget that Jim isn’t a tall man, that he has to stretch to reach you.

“ _Bed_ ,” he growls, pushing you off. You turn around and pull off your shirt and t-shirt all in one go, almost trip over your own feet as you hop out of your underwear, but _god_ it’s been three weeks and you feel like you’re starving. You pull your shoes and socks off, get a knee on the bed and look over your shoulder.

Jim hasn’t joined the stripping frenzy. He has only lost his tie and is looking calmly at you.

You hesitate. “Aren’t you - ”

He reaches inside his pocket and throws a tube of lube at you. “Prepare yourself.”

You catch, feeling a little uneasy. Fuck knows why, compared to some things you’ve done this is pretty tame. And it's not like you've never done this before either, it's just... That had been in the heat of the moment, reaching between bodies and making quick work of it while Jim’s hands were busy elsewhere. But this feels different, with Jim at a distance, watching you with something like clinical interest in his eyes.

You reach behind you and wince. Jim pops his cufflinks, still watching you. In silence, which is fucking weird. If there’s one thing you’ve learned it’s how much he loves the sound of his own voice.

But all the uneasiness in the world isn’t enough to keep you from getting hard. No matter how dispassionate you try to be, it’s still fingers in your arse, of course you’re going to react. And that’s not counting the sight of Jim undressing with a careful deliberateness that you can’t help but find attractive.

He slides his boxers down and nods at you. “That’s enough.”

“Alright,” you say, and start to turn over onto your knees.

“No. On your back.”

“I- ”

He raises an eyebrow. You lean back, propped up on your elbows, wiping your slick fingers on the sheets. He bends down and gets a condom from his trouser pocket. He keeps his eyes on you as he tears the packaging, rolls it on, and your throat goes dry.

He crawls onto the bed and kneels between your thighs, hand on your knee. You let him fold your leg, press it against your chest. It leaves you feeling exposed and vulnerable, which isn't exactly logical. You can't count the number of times he's seen you naked and in revealing poses, and you never felt anything but excitement then. But he feels distant, somehow, not physically but - but like you don't know him anymore, like he's a stranger again. A fucking _intimidating_ stranger.

He manhandles you until he’s got you exactly where he wants you, legs open, hips raised, ready to be taken. It's enough to give you a little shiver of anticipation, and when he leans forward and braces himself, one hand going down to his cock, you can't contain a little pleading noise. He notices it - of course he notices, he always notices - and flashes you a wide predatory grin.

You squeeze your eyes shut as he starts to push in. All those months of almost-daily sex has _done_ something to you – muscle memory, maybe, but it goes deeper than that. It’s in the way you seem to recognise what he wants without needing to think about it, how you spread your legs and cross your ankles behind his back and tilt your hips as if to welcome him in. The overwhelming _relief_ when he’s fully inside, the reassuring solidity of his chest against the inside of your thighs.

He leans his elbow onto the mattress and shifts his knees, changing the angle. You shiver again and he freezes for a second, bites his lip. He looks up at you. You swallow.

And then at fucking _last_ he moves. With your legs up like this you've got practically no leverage at all and he fucks you brutally hard, leaving you no time to adjust. You have to throw an arm out and take hold of the headboard to prevent your head banging against it.

You could try to fight it. Get your feet on the bed and push back, try to get him off, get some leverage. But – shameful though it is – you don’t really want to. There’s a _thrill_ in being used like this, and it doesn’t even matter that he’s ignoring your cock or seems to be touching you as little as possible, you're perfectly content just watching him. The muscles standing out in his forearms, the tension in his shoulders, the vicious intense look on his face...

You try to reach for him but he captures your arm and pins it against the mattress without missing a beat. You try to pull your arm away but he keeps you down, leaning his weight onto your aching wrist. You groan and rock your hips, try to match him. He shifts a little and suddenly he’s hitting your prostate with each thrust and you throw your head back, bite your tongue, too lost in it for rational thought. 

And he seems to be feeling the same, because it can’t be much over a few minutes before he thrusts in deep and stays there, and shudders, head bowed.

He pulls out almost immediately. You reach for him again but he avoids your grasping hand, and he goes straight to the bathroom, leaving you behind, shaking and sweaty and still very much unsatisfied.

You put your palms flat on the bed and glance down. Your cock is pointing proudly at the ceiling, leaking precome. It would be easy enough to reach out and finish this.

You keep your hands on the sheets.

Jim comes back from the bathroom and sits down at the end of the bed, one leg tucked underneath him. He glances at you. “I should leave you like this, you know.”

You close your eyes, breathe in. You feel like you'll  _die_ if you don’t get to come, but… “If that’s what you want,” you say slowly, “then yes.”

Silence. You open your eyes again. He’s staring at you, and as you watch his face goes from surprise to annoyance. “I don’t need your _permission_ ,” he snaps.

“I know that, it wasn’t meant as – I mean…” You lick your lips. “Whatever you want.”

He stares at you for a bit. It can’t have been the wrong to say, can it? _Your complete unquestioning obedience_ , that’s what he wanted, so he can’t complain if he’s getting it now, but then why is he looking like that?

And then he throws his head back and laughs, sudden and unrestrained.

“Er…” you say, a little unnerved. God knows it’s not the first time his reaction has been a little unusual, but still.

“You really are _perfect_ , aren’t you Sebastian?” he says, still chuckling.

“Am I?” you ask, completely baffled.

He swings his legs around and kneels over your thighs. His hand closes tight around the base of your cock. His  _right_ hand, so what’s he –

“Poor boy,” he murmurs, eyes still glittering. “Fucked like a cheap rentboy without one touch of relief. You must be _gasping_  for it.”

Your cock twitches in response.  “I don't – ”

“Shush.” He swipes the thumb of his left hand over the head and licks off the drop of precome, making a show of it, one long exaggerated swipe of his tongue. Your breath catches. He licks his lips and looks down fondly at your cock. "So many options," he muses.

"I don't care what you do as long as you fucking  _do_ it," you snarl at him.

"Dangerous thing to say, Seb." He gently pushes the foreskin back and puts his finger on the very tip. You push up onto your elbows, because you want him near, close, something more than just that tiny touch.

“Down,” he says calmly, not even looking up. You fall back onto the sheets and bit down on your fist to keep from begging.

He draws his finger gently down, in slowly widening spirals. It’s… it feels like he’s got his fingers right on your nerve endings, both too much and not enough. You try to raise your leg but you’re stopped by his thigh, keeping you down. Pinned down, helpless again, and it makes the teasing touch just that much worse.

He puts his finger back to his mouth and licks it clean. He wouldn’t leave you like this, would he? Not now, not when you’re this close. Even though he’s looking at you with a smile that could mean anything but mostly seems sadistic – who are you trying to fool, of course he would leave you like this, if he thought you deserved it.

You pull your hand from your mouth and look at him. “Jim?”

“What?” He strokes your hip, nails scratching over the taut skin next to the bone.

“For fuck’s sake, just –  _please_.”

“You’ve got rather  _good_ at begging, haven’t you, Sebastian?” he says, smirking. But he does bend down. He pauses briefly to give you a look from beneath his lashes – you can feel his hot breath, he’s that fucking close – and then he closes his lips over the head and sucks, hard.

You come like a shot, legs struggling against his, hips jerking uncontrollably. He keeps you down with ease, not letting go off your cock until he's got the last drop out and you’re going soft again. Only then does he slide off, lips pursed.

“ _Jesus_ ,” you say, breathing hard.

He sits up and pulls a face. Now why would he – oh, right, of course Jim wouldn’t just spit on the sheets.

You throw your arm out, get a couple of tissues from the bedside table and hand them over. He spits, crumples the tissues and puts them neatly on the other bedside table. You scoot to the side and he lies down next to you.

After a while you glance aside. Jim has closed his eyes, hands folded behind his head, looking completely calm and content.

“So I presume forgiven, then?” you ask.

“Don’t presume, Seb,” he says, not opening his eyes. “It’s a bad habit.”

“Is it?”

“Well, you’re presuming there is something you need to be forgiven  _for_ , for one thing.”

 You get up quickly onto your elbow. “ _What_?”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he says calmly.

“Just now, or – ”

“In the factory. You took the best possible action, given the circumstances. Same as you did here.”

You stare at him. “Then why,” you ask, voice shaking a little, “did you lose your shit over it?”

“You mean why did I  _appear_  to lose my shit over it.”

“You – " You sit up and try to keep yourself from strangling him. "What is this, another fucking _test_?”

He cracks one eye open and smiles at you. “Are you cross with me, Seb?”

“ _Yes._  I don’t enjoy being manipulated."

“Yes, I know.” Not an apology, or an excuse. Or even a reason.

You fall back onto the bed and run your hands over your face. A test. Putting you into a new situation and seeing how you react. Making you think you made a mistake and watching how you deal with that. It makes sense. In a really weird fucked-up obsessive way, it makes sense.

“And I’ve passed, have I?” you ask sourly.

“Oh, yes. With flying colours.”

You slide your hands off your face and turn on your pillow. Jim is watching you, a slight smile on his lips. “Well then?” he asks. “Calmed down a bit? Suppressed your murderous urges?”

“To be honest…” you start to say. He raises his eyebrows. “To be honest, I’m mostly surprised you still felt the need. To test, I mean.” He frowns. You lick your lips, feeling a little nervous. You don’t like talking about this, saying it out loud – it’s not like he doesn’t  _know_ , for fuck’s sake.

“What, Seb?” he says impatiently.

“Well, I thought I was being pretty fucking obvious about how I – Well. You know.”

“Ah.  _That._ ” He closes his eyes again.

_That_. Seems like you’re not the only who dislikes putting it into words. Nice to know you’ve got that in common.

“It wasn’t just about me,” he says after a while. “It was about you as well,” he adds, which is as close to an admission of guilt you’re ever going to get.

“Alright.” You search his face. “Okay, er – and are you going to do it again?”

He grins. “Probably not, no,” he says casually. He rolls up onto his elbow and puts his hand on your stomach, traces your ribs. Meaning he’s gearing up for round two, ‘cause he only ever gets tactile like that when it’s about sex.

You let him fondle you and fall back to your thoughts. Not just about Jim, so, something you needed to learn as well. How Jim goes mental when something goes wrong? But no, you knew that already. Something about fear, maybe. Reputation. How you’ve changed?

He rolls on top of you. You throw your arms around his lower back and align his hips against yours, and his smile turns filthy. “I do appreciate your stamina, dear boy,” he drawls. He digs his nails into your jaw and holds your head still while he kisses you. You lie still under the assault, let him take what he wants.

Fear and reputation and whispered stories and rumours of mysterious deaths…

“Do me a favour,” you say carefully when he pulls back. He looks cheerful enough to risk it, after all.

“Hmm?” He noses under your jaw.

“Sophia. Don’t kill her.”

You stiffen in anticipation, but he keeps calm, fingers tracing your jugular. “Why, do you li-ike her?”

“Fuck off.”

He nips at your throat and leans back. “Oh, well. I suppose I can accommodate. She doesn’t know that much.”

“Thanks.”

He sits up and puts his hands on your chest. “I’m sure you can express your gratitude a little more eloquently than that,” he says, smirking in challenge.

You grin back and tackle him to the mattress.

 ***

_The ground is wet under your cheek, your ears are full of a painful piercing whine, and the air has that slaughterhouse-smell that means spilled blood, spilled guts. You open your eyes and stare straight into the face of your corporal. The bottom part is just as it was, full lips and a bright blue eye, always was a pretty one. The top part is exposed brain tissue and broken bone fragments and muscle and -_

It’s light. It’s not your bedroom. Fight, find something to use as a weapon and -

“Calm down.”

Jim. Your hands are shaking and you’re drenched in cold sweat but your mind is clearing up again. Hotel room. Manchester. You’re _fine_.

Christ. You’d hoped this would be over now Jim is back, but apparently not.

You turn your head, eyes adjusting to the darkness. Jim is sitting up, his chin leaning on his drawn-up knees. “Are you having flashbacks?” he asks interestedly.

“No.” You’ve seen soldiers with PTSD, the hollow eyes as they stare at the same scene over and over again, trapped inside their own memories. This isn’t that. “No, just plain old nightmares. That explosion brought some stuff back, that’s all.”

“Tell me.”

An order, not a question, more morbid curiosity and sadism than concern, surely. You fold your hands over your stomach. “There’s this one thing that keeps coming back - yeah, I know, but it isn’t PTSD, I am _not_ fucking flashbacking.”

Jim shrugs, and alright, maybe you got a little too defensive, but you did spend a lot of time talking to annoyingly empathic army psychologists back then. Almost as if they _wanted_ you to have a breakdown. “Anyway. This one thing. It’s funny, it isn’t even the worst. I mean, I was _tortured_ and that barely shows up.”

“So what’s different about it?”

“The unpredictability, I think. We were just talking and laughing at some stupid joke, and then one of the privates triggered a tripwire, and - boom. Bits of my squad raining down like fucking confetti. When I came round I was practically nose-to-nose with my corporal, and his head was blown to pieces.” You shrug. “He comes to say hello every once in a while, eye missing, brain showing. It’ll stop in a couple of days.”

"Hm.” He tilts his head, as if he’s trying to see inside your mind. “Well, I’ll know if it doesn’t.” He smirks. “You shout when you’re having nightmares.”

He stretches and lies down again, and you close your eyes. For one second all you can see is corporal Graves, grinning his half-exposed monster’s grin, and then Jim’s hand squeezes your hip  and you try to concentrate on the warmth of his palm instead. And slowly the lingering nauseating horror starts to fade.

***

The morning after you pack your bags and get behind the wheel of the car Jim has brought with him - no driver, he prefers it to be just the two of you when it’s a long ride.

You’ve only been away for three weeks but you miss London already. Manchester is interesting enough but it isn’t  _home,_ not the way London is. It’ll be good to return.

“Exit here.”

Or not. You look up in surprise at the signs. The next exit is Manchester Airport. You glance at him in the rearview mirror. “We’re not going to London?”

He folds his hands behind his head and sprawls a little deeper into the seats. “You’re so very  _observant_ , Sebastian, really, it never ceases to amaze me.”

“Yeah, alright,  _fine_. Airport. Where am I going, then?”

“Italy.”

You try to catch his eye again, but he’s looking outside, head leaning against the window, frowning at the passing cars. Seems like his mood has shifted again.

“First Manchester, now Europe, that it?” you ask. Maybe the test isn’t over yet, or maybe this _is_ punishment after all. Banishment.

“Hmm. Although I’m joining you this time. Rome, first, and then, well...”

“I didn’t pack for warm weather,” you say carefully.

His eyes find yours. “Oh, don’t worry, I did.”

“Yeah, ‘course you did.”

It doesn’t even occur to you to ask  _why_ you’re going to Rome until you’re standing at the check-in desk. But even then he refuses to reply, so you leave it be.

***

The smell of hot tarmac fills your nose. You tilt your head back and bask in the sun. London might be home in every way that counts, but the weather there is shit, and you missed this kind of scorching heat.

Jim steps out after you and pulls a face. “It’s hot.”

“And about to get hotter, it isn’t noon yet.” You bounce on your heels. You don’t like being inactive for extended periods of time, and simply being able to stretch your legs feels pretty amazing right now.

“Look at you, all bouncy,” Jim says, putting on his sunglasses.

“I like travelling. And it’s been too long.”

The last plane you were in was the one that took you from Kabul to Heathrow. It’s an odd thought. Feels like a different life.

The stewardess steps out and throws the two of you a scandalised look. Jim too can’t stand sitting still for that long and you solved it the usual way; in this case, by dragging him to the toilet on the plane and joining the mile high club.

You wink at the stewardess and her scowl grows even deeper. Another one comes out of the plane and the first one hooks her arm around her, leaning in and whispering.

“I think we’re being blacklisted,” you say wryly.

Jim waves his hand. “Our next tickets are on another name, anyway.”

You take your and Jim’s bags and follow him to the baggage reclaim hall. “Are you going to tell me why we’re here now?”

“No.”

“You’re a secretive little shit, aren’t you?”

He looks over his shoulder and grins at you from beneath his sunglasses. It’s unnerving, not being able to see his eyes like that. “I’ll explain when we’re in the hotel.  _If_ ,” he tilts his head down and looks at you over his shades, “you’re a good boy.”

“I’ve already been a good boy, remember? Somewhere above France?”

“Wait until I get you on a  _bed_.”

Christ. It’s the  _way_  he says it, voice going low, heavy with insinuation, almost a parody of seduction, and this shouldn’t be so arousing, damn it all. Although it’s partly habit by now. Like Pavlov’s dog, only with erections instead of drooling. Actually, no, with erections  _and_  drooling.

You casually reposition one of the bags in front of your crotch  - you’ve scandalised enough people for one day, no need to go walking around with your hard-on in full view - and trail after him to the large hall, calculating the odds of having a quick shag in the loos before the bags start arriving.

“You speak Italian, don’t you?” he asks, interrupting your daydreaming.

“A bit.  _Where’s the train station_ ,  _when is breakfast served, drop the weapon or I’ll kill you_  sort of thing.”

He sits down on one of those uncomfortable plastic benches and his eyebrow comes up from beneath the mirrored glasses. “I bet you didn’t learn that in Eton.”

“Not quite. Although the fucking Latin comes in handy. It’s similar enough to Italian to get by.”

“The benefits of a public school education.”

The machine revs up and the first bag drops heavily onto the conveyor belt. You side-eye Jim but keep quiet. You’re fairly sure he knows Latin, but where he learnt it? Fuck knows.

The third bag is one of yours, expensive leather. Jim points a finger at it. “Go, fetch.”

“Woof,” you mutter under your breath, but you do as you’re told anyway. Fuck, all that’s missing is a collar.

And Jim might just be twisted enough to actually get you one.

***

The hotel room looks more like the sitting room of a renaissance mansion than anything else, and the view is so beautiful it’s bordering on ridiculous. There’s even a fireplace.

It takes you straight back to the embassies where you spent the first eleven years of your life, and it leaves a bad taste in your mouth. You don’t want to be here, you want some small worn-down slightly dirty B&B in the old city centre, not this shining behemoth of class and style. It’s getting seriously on your nerves.

You turn around. Jim is grinning widely at you, as if he knows exactly what you’re - no, not  _as if_ , he simply  _knows_.

“So, why do you think we’re here?” he asks. He’s lounging on one of the sofas, dirty shoes on the velvet upholstery. It sounds more like he’s indulging you than an interrogation, but with Jim you can never be sure.

“Here in the fucking Cavalieri or here in Rome?”

“Rome. I just like the Cavalieri. All that art.”

The hotel has a prestigious art collection, hanging around in the public areas. According to Jim’s running commentary when you walked past them, at least half of them are excellent fakes. And Jim is indirectly responsible for most of them.

He’s got a weakness for art theft, apparently.

“No clue,” you admit. “Taking over the world?”

“Oh, Sebastian.” He laughs and tips his head back against the armrest. “What on earth makes you think I haven’t already?”

“You...” You shake your head. Best not to get too deep into this. “Alright then. Enlighten me, why are we here?”

“It’s a PR tour.”

“Sorry?”

“Sit down, I’m getting a crick in my neck,” he says irritably.

You sit down on a chair opposite of him and cross your arms. He’s tapping his fingers again, one of those few true tells he has.

“PR,” you say, trying to decipher. “Reputation? Since when are you worried about what people think of you?”

He frowns. “People forget. They need reminding.”

Ah. “And when you say  _reminding_...”

Another bright grin. “Get out the knuckledusters, boy, we’re going for a ride,” he drawls.

***

The first one is a middle-aged Italian in a fancy suit. Mafia, probably, holed away in an antique estate that he probably thought was  _impenetrable_. Too stupid to live, really.

“It’s a delicate balance,” Jim says thoughtfully.

You look up, arms covered up to your elbows in blood. “What is?”

“This.” He waves at the bloody mess at your feet. “Nothing too overt or the police will catch on, but it still needs to have a certain  _flair_. Sending a message, but only to a certain subset of people.”

He’s got a point. Part of the success of  _Moriarty_  is that difference. Nobody in law enforcement has even heard the name, but every criminal worth his salt trembles at the mere mention of it. And every story needs a hard kernel of fact at its heart. An impossible theft, an unexpected explosion. A dismembered body. 

And Jim apparently delights in thinking up all those outrageous crimes. Finally he's unfettered, allowed to do whatever he wants, no requirements or clients to satisfy. That terrifying imaginative mind of his free to run wild. You can hardly wait to see what he's going to come up with.

You raise your arm and try to wipe your forehead without getting blood all over your face. “I thought all of this was made up, when I first heard about you. The horror stories?”

He shrugs. “Well, part of it is. You just - ” he does something weird with his hands – “ _nudge_  them along and they fill in the gaps for themselves. People are gullible.”

“I wasn’t.”

“No, you weren’t.” Jim smiles and brushes a strand of hair away from your eyes. “You need a haircut, dear boy.”

Your eyes stray to his mouth. God, you’re grateful he’s back to his usual over-intimate self. His disappointment in you had felt like it could kill you.

You blink. “So, what’s next? Cutting off some horse’s head and putting it on someone’s pillow?”

He laughs and leans back. “Such a pity that has been done already, isn’t it? It would be so  _funny_. But no, we’re not staying. We’re going to cross continents.”

“We’ve barely arrived,” you say, a little surprised.

“Gotta keep moving, Sebastian.”

“No rest for the wicked?”

He laughs, grabs your face and plants a big sloppy kiss on your lips. “Succinctly put, my dear. Now hurry up and finish the job.” He looks down at your feet and clucks his tongue. “ _Such_  a mess.”

***

After Italy it’s North Africa, and then the US, and East Asia, skipping from one country to the next like a kid playing hopscotch.

You’re loving every second of it. The bustle of the airports, inhaling the fresh air when you step out of the plane, the sound of foreign languages buzzing in your ears. And maybe it’s sentimentality, or Jim is rubbing off on you, with all his stories and images and fairytales, but it seems like every city is alive and sentient, each with its own personality. Rome, clinging to its past far more desperately than London ever did; Cairo, dusty and scorching hot, with busy, fragrant souqs that bring back memories from your childhood; New York, young, brash, smug; Tokyo, a high-tech towering frenetic mess.

And in every city, on every continent, there's Jim. Reminding people that the Moriarty rumours exist for a reason, that he's everywhere, that he can't be avoided. Revenge too, picking off all those people stupid enough to think they could outrun him, one by one, murders gruesome enough to shock even the most hardened criminals.

_Don't cross me_ , he carves around the world.  _Do as I say_. And you're right there, standing at his elbow, obeying his every order as easily as if you were part of him. It's glorious.

***

After Tokyo comes Mexico, a drugs cartel that gets picked apart, and after that it’s another plane, another false name, and by this time it’s so routine that you don’t even pay attention to where you’re going. It’s only when the cool air hits your face that you remember to ask. Sweden, apparently, fuck knows why.

There’s a driver waiting in the main hall - they just  _turn up_  wherever Jim goes - and half an hour later you’re in hotel number… eighteen? nineteen? You’ve lost count.

You collapse on the hotel bed and groan. “I am  _beyond_ jetlagged.”

Jim looks up from the mirror. “Hm?”

“Seriously, I think my biological clock has simply given up by now. How many times have we crossed the date line now?”

“Three.” He yawns.

“See? Even  _you_ are feeling it, and you’re - ”

He grins. “I am?”

“Inhuman.” You close your eyes. You can hear his footsteps on the carpet, and then the bed dips. A second later his fingertips run over your face.

“Haven’t you made your point by now?” you ask, eyes still closed.

“Not yet.” His fingers touch your lips, the bed creaks, and then his mouth brushes yours. His lips are chapped, the air in planes is always too dry.

You reach up and hook a hand behind his neck. He moves from your mouth to your throat. “Let’s play a game,” he murmurs in your ear.

You open your eyes. He’s far too close for you to see him properly. You push at his shoulder and he sits up, cross-legged next to you. “What game?” Because Jim’s  _games_ are often fun but they also tend to leave bruises, and you’re far too exhausted for anything like that.

He smiles. “Let’s pretend you’re me.”

“Since when are you into roleplay?”

He rolls his eyes. “For once, Sebastian, this isn’t about sex.”

“Is this another fucking test?” you ask suspiciously.

He laughs. “Aren’t they all?” He shifts and flops down on his back next to you, shoulder-to-shoulder. “There’s someone here who’s expecting a meeting in person, but I’ve decided against it. Not that they need to know that, of course.”

“So...  You want me to pretend to be you?”

“You do catch on quickly, don’t you dear?” He pats your thigh. You roll your head and squint at him. “I’m curious to see what you come up with,” he adds.

Another challenge. But at least he’s being open about this one.

You fold your hands behind your head and look at the ceiling. Jim rolls onto his side, throws his leg over yours, kisses you. His hand goes from your throat down to your stomach and below. You close your eyes. “You’re going to come up disappointed," you say.

His fingers dip inside your trousers and stroke your cock, still persistently flaccid despite his best efforts. He laughs. “Ah, don’t you  _like_ me anymore, Sebastian?”

“Nothing personal,” you say. “Right now, I wouldn’t even get it up after a truckload of Viagra.”

“Hmm. Sounds like a challenge to me.”

It’s easy to forget that you’re not the only competitive one here. Jim sits up again and starts taking off your trousers, but you catch his wrist before he can. “Jim,  _no_.”

Luckily this is one of those times he actually listens to you. He gives your stomach a conciliatory pat and eases off again. You close your eyes and roll over onto your side, and fall asleep maybe three seconds later.

***

Compared to Mexico, Stockholm is fucking freezing. But it’s still summer, which means the sun is burning bright enough to leave you blinded. You put on your shades and look around the plaza.

It isn’t the first time you’ve been sent to negotiate for Jim. You’ve been playing his go-between nearly from the start, after all. The only difference is the name they’ll be calling you, but still, this whole thing is leaving you unsettled.

You spot your targets at the nearest café. You’re greeted with a jarringly casual  _hey_ , and it takes a few seconds before you remember that’s just Swedish for  _hello_.

You sit down. The guy in front of you looks lean and tough, trying hard not to show his nerves. He’s the flunky for the one sitting next to him, Lisa Eklund, short grey hair, flint eyes, could be a worn-down thirty or a well-preserved sixty, or anything in between.

It’s... unusual to see women at this level, but why the hell not? Besides, if she has managed to get this high up she’s tough enough, as far as you’re concerned

“Mr Moriarty,” the flunky says, with a terse little nod.

God, this is strange.

You focus on Eklund and grin, showing off your teeth, much in the way Jim sometimes does. “Are you going to let your monkey do all the talking for you? Because if so...”

You leave the threat hanging in the air, and they exchange glances. If only they knew.

“I apologise,” she says stiffly. “I meant no offence.”

“I’m sure you didn’t.” You flag down the waiter and order a coffee. They’re watching your every move. “So," you say, turning back to them. “You mentioned international connections?”

“Yes. We want to expand, but... We heard you can help. That you know everyone important.”

“I do get around a lot, yes.” It sounds like something Jim could say.

Speaking of... Of course Jim wouldn’t just leave this to you without some sort of supervision, and he’s sitting two tables away, flipping through a tourist guide. He’s wearing shorts, and you have trouble tearing your eyes away from his pale knobbly knees.

“- can provide?”

“Hm?” you ask, still looking over her shoulder. Jim winks at you.

Silence. You look back and your stomach plummets when you see the suddenly suspicious expression on their faces. “Tell me, Mr  _Moriarty_ ,” she says, eyes narrowed, “what assurance do we have you are who you say you are?”

Fuck. Your first instinct is to start shouting, to intimidate them, but that’s not the right approach here.

_What would Moriarty do?_

You take off your sunglasses and fold them neatly. “Assurance?” you say softly. “And pray tell, what sort of  _assurance_ would you like? A quick overview of my latest projects? A glance at my passport, assuming that Moriarty is my real name, of course. Or do you just want me to swear solemnly on the Bible?” You smile, understated, almost charming. It’s one of Jim’s expressions: affable, casual politeness, which is only a smokescreen for the violence beneath.

_I might just torture you to death later, but right now I’m being nice._

“I’m afraid you’ll just have to take my word for it,” you continue. You spread your arms with another amicable smile. “Because, Lisa - you don’t mind if I call you Lisa, do you? - be honest. Do I look like a liar?”

The woman shakes her head, what little colour she had disappeared from her face. “I’m sorry. I’m... I did not intend - ”

You wave your hand. “Oh, doesn’t matter, we’re all friends here, aren’t we?” You meet her eyes, and she freezes. You stay silent, watching her. Her hands start shaking. A passing waiter gives you all a puzzled look.

“So," you say after a suitable amount of tense silence. "International connections."

She takes a deep shuddering breath. “Yes. Can you put us in touch with the right people?”

“My dear, of  _course_ I can.”

In the background, Jim looks back at his book with a wide grin.

***

“That was  _fun_. You’re a better actor than I gave you credit for, dear boy.”

“I thought you had faith in me?” you ask, eyes firmly on the official building in front of you. It’s a massive, fortress-like thing, and you’re not quite sure if you’re here to sightsee or for recon. It wouldn’t be the first government building you’ve broken into.

“Oh, I did. Still, you exceeded expectations.”

You smirk. “Do I get a gold star?”

He takes your chin, turns your head towards his and kisses you. When he pulls off you keep your eyes closed. “We’re in public,” you murmur, because fucking his brains out in private is one thing, but strangers watching feels... unusual.

“We’ll be fine, they’re ridiculously tolerant here. Look.” He twists your head around again and you open your eyes. A passing girl gives the both of you an encouraging smile.

As if either of you needs encouragement.

Jim stands up and throws his arms wide. “The world is our oyster, Sebastian. Succulent and weak and just  _waiting_ to be eaten.”

You snort and stand up as well. “You’re still not done?”

“Getting there, darling, getting there. Just a few more, and then we can sit back and watch the dust settle. Come on, hotel.”

And as you’re following him, you realise that he’s been using  _we_. Not  _I_ , the way he used to do, but consistently, without fail,  _we_.

***

Shanghai, Barcelona, Toronto, a trail of blood and emptied safes and broken locks, cementing the reputation, increasing the fear.  _Moriarty_  goes from a whisper behind closed doors to something that can’t be even said aloud, out of fear that he might turn up. It grows beyond urban legend, it’s  _mythical_ , a constant terror in the back of their minds.

James Moriarty. More than just a man. God, people are gullible.

***

“You're getting a reputation too, did you know?”

You turn away from the view and look at Jim. “What sort of reputation?”

“The scary one who stands at his shoulder," he says, watching you carefully. "The one who’ll kill you before you can blink. The _second most dangerous man in London_.”

You snort. “Just London?”

“Good point." He smiles and looks up at the ceiling. "Base of operations, I suppose?”

“And someone actually said that?”

His eyes go back to yours, fond and amused. “They most certainly did. They even have a name for you. Moriarty's shadow, they call you. Moriarty's ghost.” He grins wide. “How does it feel to be my shadow, Sebastian?”

You turn back to the view, remember Sophia’s terrified eyes. “Like you need me to tell you.”

He comes over and stands at your side, hands in his pockets. He's peaceful for once, almost carefree, and you like him like this.

Because yes, he's unpredictable. In fact, unpredictable doesn't even  _begin_  to cover it. He can react to the most spectacular failure of a carefully laid plan with nothing more than a shrug and a smile, and at the same time the slightest cosmetic flaw in an otherwise perfect job can send him in a psychotic rage. There's no logic to him, no sense.

And you still don't claim to understand him – you're sure by now that no one does – but you have learned his moods, like a weathercock shifting in the wind. You know him, now, not the way normal people know someone but the way an old sea captain knows the ocean.

Navigating the dangerous waters of lake Moriarty.

Christ, you're getting maudlin.

Jim turns and leans against the window, looking up at you. “Where are you _,_  Seb?” he asks.

“Where do you  _think_?”

He smiles and looks over his shoulder at the Hong Kong view.

It's a two-way street, though. Jim knows you too, can read every thought you have from your face, can predict exactly how you will react in any given situation. Not that he can't do that with other people too, of course, but with you it hardly seems to take any effort.

Months and months of watching each other seems to have paid off.

“We're going back,” he says, pulling you from your thoughts.

“London?”

He nods. “I think the world has learned its lesson.”

You grin. “ _Don't fuck with Moriarty_?”

“Just so. Although,” he licks his lips, “there are exceptions to that rule.”

You spread your arms in invitation. “Where do you want me?”

He laughs and takes your tie, using it as a leash to pull you to the bedroom. “Sometimes, Seb, you're fun to have around.”

“And don't you forget it.”

***

It’s raining when you step out of Paddington station and you pause on the pavement.

Jim looks over his shoulder. “What is it?”

“Déjà-vu,” you mutter. A little over four years ago you stood on this exact same spot. You vaguely remember worrying about something, feeling both free and frustrated.

Four years. Christ, it feels like a lifetime.

“Get in the car, your clothes are getting wet,” Jim says impatiently.

You shake off your pensive mood and get in the back of the car, waiting - as usual - just outside of the station. Jim sits down next to you in the back. The driver comes back from the boot and starts the car.

Jim raises his eyebrows at you - _need anything?_

You shake your head -  _no, I’m fine_.

He goes back to playing with his phone. You lean your head against the window and look outside. The traffic is slow and Hyde Park is largely empty because of the rain.

“Stop brooding.”

You look at Jim, who’s frowning at his phone. “The past’s the past, Seb. No point in dwelling.”

“I wasn’t, I was just... marvelling at the difference a couple of years can make.” He shoots you a look and you shrug. “No regrets, in case you’re wondering.”

“I wasn’t.”

***

Two weeks later he goes to some sort of meeting, at the top floor of Canary Wharf. You come along to stand in the corner and glower, and it must be true what he said about your reputation. No one dares to meet your eye and that one moment when things get a bit heated, all you need to do is clear your throat and take a step forward for everyone to back down sheepishly.

Once they're all gone again Jim sits on the table, brooding. You get out of his way and go to the window.

You look down and squint in the light of the sun. Fifty floors high, the city spread out beneath you, people crawling around like ants. London is yours now, conquered and owned, hell, the entire world is yours, Jim's gift to you. You felt lost here once. Unsure if you would ever find a place where you would fit in.

You throw your head back and laugh.

“And they say I'm the crazy one,” Jim says mildly from behind you, but he slides off the table and comes to stand next to you.

You never would have thought you had it in you to serve, but this is the place you were meant for, at Jim's shoulder, his right hand, his shadow.

And it feels  _right_  in a way nothing ever did before.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Next chapter (wherein we skip a year ahead and meet a pair of brothers) is turning out to be another big one - 14.000 words and very likely to grow another couple of thousand - and so there might be a bit of a delay in posting.
> 
>    
>  **I’m rooting for Chelsea, personally** : Chelsea is a London football team. Manchester has two football teams, City and United. Chelsea is friends with neither of them. Openly discussing your support for Chelsea to Mancunians just before an important match is a very good way to get yourself punched. (or worse)  
>    
>  **soldiers with PTSD, the hollow eyes as they stare at the same scene over and over again, trapped inside their own memories** : I could write (and have, in fact, written) essays on the subject of PTSD. But I won't clutter up the notes. The important thing to know about PTSD is that it's a reaction to one single defined traumatic event, and that one of its characteristic symptoms is re-experience of the traumatic event, in the form of nightmares and a sort of involuntary all-encompassing vivid daydream: flashbacks. The former are relatively harmless (although they can be very damaging to a person) but the latter can be catastrophic, because it can make soldiers freeze up in the middle of a battle. Hence Sebastian's insistence that it isn't proper PTSD, just bad dreams - in other words, he's still fit for duty.


	7. The Virgin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which Seb Shoots Things And Kidnaps People

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay!
> 
> Warnings for blasphemy, classism, reference to suicide, explicit m/m sex, bondage, dubious consent, general mental health problems, murder, terrorism, reference to murder of children, domesticity

**7\. The Virgin**

_Keep your clever mouth shut_  
 _I am all of these things_    
 _I am this and more_    
 _You don't scare me at all_    
 _(Curve – Hell Above Water)_

A six-hour flight. A plane filled with crying babies and obnoxious teenagers which almost made you violate your principles and upgrade to business class. Another hour delay in customs, when they think they’ve discovered something suspicious in your bags – which is hilarious, if you think of all the highly illegal stuff you‘ve successfully smuggled in and out of the country so far – but they let you go with apologies and dark looks after a call to someone in charge. And then a taxi driver who doesn’t shut up until you snarl at him, and a thirty minute drive taking an hour because of the fucking traffic. Even the fucking weather is conspiring against you: the second you get out of the taxi the previous quiet drizzle picks up and turns into a fucking flood. Just this once you’re tempted to say  _fuck it_ and let the man drop you off right in front of the flat, discretion be damned, but Jim would use your entrails as fucking christmas decorations if he ever found out. So you get out a couple of streets away and walk for fifteen fucking minutes, bags slung over your aching shoulders, and by the time you reach home you're tired and annoyed and soaked to the bone.

But you could’ve borne that all with a cheerful smile if it hadn’t been for Jim’s absence. This last job took you away from London for almost an entire month, away from  _him_ , and you hate it. Hate the reminder of how you could have ended up, what life would've been if you hadn't met the little psycho.

The flat is uncharacteristically disarrayed, strewn with his files, classic manila folders. For all that he's a computer genius Jim likes keeping hard copies of the most important things, and once every while he does this, emptying out his filing cabinets and arranging all of them by whatever madcap system he has.

You hang your sodden coat over a chair to dry and pick your way across the living room, careful not to disturb anything. You found out the hard way what happens when you mess up Jim's filing system; the marks of your nails are still visible in the wood of the bookcase.

One of the piles teeters when you go by and you reach out quickly to steady it. The top file is different from the others: older, stained and torn, and decorated with flowers and hearts. That's not what's strange, however, Jim doodles on everything. The thing that doesn't fit is the handwriting. You know Jim's hand intimately, hell, you've got a sample of it carved in your back, and it is Jim's, but it's odd, round and a bit wobbly.

 _Sherlock Holmes_ , it says, in plain English. All of his other files are illegible gibberish to you, so there must be something special about this one.

You pick it up and leaf through it quickly. The first page is a picture of a youngish man with high cheekbones and dark curly hair.

“Don't touch that.”

You look up. Jim is standing in the doorway, glass of scotch in his hand, face blank and unreadable, and  _god_ you’ve missed him. It’s always like this when you’ve been away from him a while, just looking at him is enough to make something tight inside your chest relax.

But if that's how he wants to play it...

“If you wanted me to stay away from your things you should've never invited me in in the first place,” you say calmly, flipping a few pages. A copy of an admittance form to a rehab clinic, a few medical documents, nothing particularly interesting.

There's a soft thud as he puts his glass down, and you glance up to see him make his deliberate way to you.

“Pulling at the leash again, Sebastian?” he says in a soft, dangerous voice that goes straight to your cock. Four weeks without Jim means four weeks without sex, because even if he weren't so ridiculously possessive, other people have long lost their appeal. And of course he knows that.

You try to ignore him and look back down at the file. What is it about this one that makes him edgy? He doesn't usually care if you rummage through his things. He stopped hiding anything from you a long time ago.

You turn back to the front cover. The careful, slightly shaky letters, uneven, wobbly... It's a child's handwriting, not yet fully formed, which would make this particular file about twenty years old.

“What - ” you start to say, but he backhands you before you can finish. You stumble backwards, your feet slip on another heap of files and you go down flailing.

Jim puts his foot on your throat before you can get up again, a hunter's triumphant posing. You glare up at him. You could pull him off-balance easily enough, but...

“Oh dear, have you lost your edge?” he tuts.

“Six hour flight, give me some recovery time.” You raise your hands in surrender.

“Get up,” he says with a slight nudge against your trachea. “And get to the bedroom, I'm not getting semen on my files.”

“So I'm to believe you don't secretly wank over - ”

“Seb.  _Now._ ”

“Yessir.”

***

Your feigned indifference lasts about until you step into the bedroom and turn around and see him, _there_. Within reaching distance.

Four weeks.

Jim has paused as well, hands halfway to his cuffs

“If you – if you don’t do something _now_ I’m going to jump you,” you say hoarsely.

He pre-empts you. You’re suddenly flat on your back on the bed, Jim heavy on top of you. His hands are on your neck and he’s kissing you, and no one in the entire fucking _world_ kisses like that.

“Clothes,” you mumble between kisses. “Fucking _clothes_ , get them – ”

A ripping sound – that’s your shirt, nicely out of the way. You pull at Jim’s shirt and a few buttons give and then it’s _off_ , and his skin is warm beneath your hands and you can feel him panting.

He falls back onto you, too eager to have any energy left to expend on trousers. You try to reach for his belt but he’s too close, his stomach pressed against yours. You laugh. “I’m not just going to – for fuck’s sake, Jim, it’s been four weeks, at least make it _count_.”

“Fine, _fine_ ,” he says, and his voice sounds a little strange and trembling and this is _Jim_ , who never loses his cool, who’s got the self-control of a fucking _monk_ and his voice is shaking and it’s _because of you_. You pull your hand from beneath his stomach and drag him into another kiss.

His legs slide open, knees on either side of your thighs, and his hands pluck at your belt. It takes a few tries before he gets the buckle undone. “This – this would be a lot easier if we just got up for a second,” you manage to say.

“I know,” Jim says, but he stays exactly where he is and so do you, because no way in hell you’re letting go of him now. “Up,” he growls, tugging at your waistband. You raise your hips from the bed, accidentally pushing your thigh between his legs, and that almost sets this whole thing awry again. But he manages to get your trousers to your knees and then you kick them off the rest of the way. It’s a good thing you can multitask, toeing your shoes off and unbuttoning Jim’s trousers at the same time.

The cuff of your sleeve gets torn in his haste, as well as one of his belt loops and the elastic of his boxers, but finally, fucking _finally_ , you’re both naked.

Four weeks. It might have seemed like an eternity but right now it’s _nothing_. Nowhere long enough to erase the familiarity of his ribcage beneath your palms, the movement of his hips, the taste of his mouth. It feels like you haven’t been away for more than a day, or like you never even _left_ the bed. Everything that isn’t Jim against you distant and unreal.

Would he be feeling it as well? This bone-deep perfect fiery _need_?

You get on top of him and pin his arms to the bed. His legs fall open and you lean down, press up against him. He arches up for a kiss and you pull away at the very last moment, your lips hovering less than an inch from his.

“Tease,” he growls.

“Learned it from the best.” You smash your lips against his and he makes a surprised sound. You let go of his arms and he puts his hands on your neck, fingers digging in hard. Damn _right_ he’s feeling it too.

He gets one elbow on the mattress and pushes up, rolling around. He ends up on top again but instead of going down he leans sideways, making a dive for the bedside table. You put your hands on his waist, supporting him while he scrabbles frantically through the drawer.

“Me or you?” you ask when he drops back, tube in hand.

“Me,” he says. “Hurry.”

He latches onto your mouth and you pull his thigh up, find his arse.

 _Hurry_ , he said, so you’ve got licence to be rough. You shove in two fingers and he grits his teeth, face going tight in an attempt not to fight back. You stroke his side with your free hand, splaying your fingers over his too-visible ribs.

It’s a little awkward, and again it would have been a lot easier just to change position and let go for a bit but you just _can’t_. So undignified fumbling is it. Besides, being this close means you can feel each twitch and intake of breath and shudder going through his body and it’s intoxicating.

You push a third finger in and he moans, loud and pornographic.  You hook your free hand around his neck and pull him down, and you can feel, _taste_ every noise he makes at every push of your fingers.

“That’s – ” he starts, but you pull him back down, kiss him and bite down hard enough to hurt. He moans again, hands tightening in your hair. He has to pull you off forcefully and you go for his neck, lick the first drops of sweat off.

“ _Seb_ , get – get _on_ with it.”

You pull your fingers back. He grabs your shoulder and pulls, rolling you over, ending up beneath you. You lean down on your elbows and he kisses you again. There’s no finesse to it, no art, just wet lips sliding and his teeth catching on your bottom lip.

And then he pulls away and turns over onto his stomach, surprisingly enough.

You lean on your elbow and run your free hand over his back. He pushes up slightly onto his elbows and you lean down, bite at the muscle of his shoulder and neck. “I would have thought you’d have wanted to look – ”

He turns his head. His pupils are huge and his hair is messy and he looks two seconds away from snapping.  “I saw you all the time on the webcam,” he says breathlessly. “I need to _feel_.”

“I’m not complaining.” You scoot back a little and grab his hips, pull him bodily down. He yelps and his hands scrabble at the sheets, and you grin.

You put your hands on his arse and part him, thumbs sliding over the slick skin. He shudders again. You take your cock in hand, put the head right against Jim’s arse. And stop.

He glares at you over his shoulder. “What the hell are you waiting for?”

“That,” you say, and you push slowly in. His head drops forwards and he tilts his hips back, arse up, taking you inside, making a noise like he’s dying.

He wriggles and you throw your leg over his, keeping him down. His hand flails – he never does like being held down – and you catch it, enlace your fingers and put them back on the mattress. You lean down again, chest pressed against his back, thighs against his, warm and slightly sweaty and so unbelievably fucking _real_. You can see his face, eyes squeezed shut, teeth buried in his bottom lip.

You pull back, just a little, and push slowly back in. Your moans match his. God, this feels – feels like more than just _sex_ , like…You can’t even put it in words, how _right_ it feels to have him this close. No fucking poetics can do this justice.

You laugh, softly.

“What?” Jim growls.

“Nothing. I’m just – I missed this. I missed you.”

He doesn’t reply – which is an answer all of its own, of course.

You pull your hips back a little and push back in. It’s a horrid angle for anything but going slow and shallow, but it doesn’t really matter.  _Slow_ means you get to relish each and every one of Jim's reactions, all those little noises he tries so hard to keep quiet, the shivers and jerks and his fingers curling beneath yours.

And because it’s been four weeks it doesn’t take that much before a particularly hard clench and thrust sends you over the edge. You collapse on top of him, breathing hard.

“Get – ” Jim starts, annoyed, “Get _off_ , you weigh a _ton_ , _get_ – ”

“Fine, fine, easy.” You pull out, roll off, and he turns over onto his back. You put your hand on his chest and press your lips against his breastbone.

“Time for teasing has _long_ passed, Seb,” he says. His hand finds your hair and he pulls you down.

You throw a leg over his knees and go down, eyes closed. Touch, feel, that’s all that’s important, his cock heavy against your tongue and the taste of his come in your mouth – it’s been four weeks for him as well, little fuck doesn’t need more than a few seconds. His hands pull at your hair and he throws his head back, baring his throat, mouth open. He never says your name, but then again he doesn’t really need to; that open unguarded expression on his face says enough.

You swallow and crawl back up. He pulls you in by the neck and you fall half on top of him, suddenly tired.

“Jetlag?” he asks.

“Think so. _Fuck_.” You open your eyes and turn to him. “You’re – Do you…”

He squeezes your neck. “Yes. Now shut your eyes for a moment, Seb. You look like you’re about to pass out.”

You turn over and close your eyes, Jim’s hand in your hair. Jetlag means your biological clock is too confused to allow proper sleep, but you do manage to doze off for a bit. Thoughts too fuzzy to grasp, vague images, and the comfort and safety of having Jim near. It's nice, really.

You come back to yourself when Jim pulls away and gets out of bed. The tap runs in the bathroom, and you sit up, yawn. “Should I…?”

He comes back out of the bathroom. “No, stay.”

You flop back down onto your stomach. The bed dips as Jim gets back under the sheets and his hand strokes your back. You close your eyes in contentment.

“You look like a basking cat,” Jim says, amused.

“I feel like one too.” You open your eyes again. “So.”

“So?”

“That file.” You jerk your head to the living room. “Sherlock Holmes. Who is he?”

He's silent for a while, tracing lazy patterns on your back. You're just starting to wonder if you misjudged his mood when he answers. “A youthful infatuation. A crush, really.”

You snort. “There's a thought. Did you send him body parts and booby-trapped packages as token of your affection?”

“Not yet.”

You twist and look at him, puzzled. There’s something in his voice, in his face...  There's a lot here that he's not telling, you can tell that much. Better not to go too deep into it. You flop back down.

“I knew a Holmes,” you say thoughtfully.

The hand on your back stills.

“Not a Sherlock though. Some other weird posh name.”

Jim huffs in amusement and alright, he has a point, someone whose full name is Sebastian Augustus  _Horace_  can't really sneer at funny names.

“Mycroft,” he says.

“That's the one. Big name in the diplomatic service at the time. Up-and-coming star. Never met him, though. Related to yours?”

“The brother.” His hand moves to your hair and starts petting absently. He’s got a point, you feel like you would start to purr if you could.

“And what's so important about him?” you ask, because, well, you never can leave well enough alone.

“He's – promising. Has potential, if he doesn't burn out first.”

“Looking to replace me?” you say with a smirk.

“Well, he is a great deal smarter than you.” He turns and straddles your back, keeping hold of your hair and pulling your head up. “But I'm sure you're the better fuck.”

Voice strained because of the position, you say, "Well, good to know where your priorities lie.”

***

It’s easy enough to fall back into your routine, for as far as living with Jim  _ever_  gets routine. It’s a life of thrills and excitement, after all.

Although staring at security footage isn’t exactly your definition of exciting. But hey, even being a criminal mastermind has boring bits.

It’s been going like clockwork, so far. The client neatly obeyed all of his instructions and he got to the main safe without any problems. You switch to the other cameras, just in case. Shrubberies, the sleeping guard dogs, the gardener tied up near the shed, and... Hold on.

You drop your feet from the desk and lean closer. There's definitely someone else sneaking around, which is not part of the plans as far as you're aware.

“Jim,” you shout at the general direction of the living room.

“What?” he yells back.

“Get your pert little arse over here, we have a problem.”

He strolls into the surveillance room, hands in his pockets. “You’re going to pay for saying that,” he informs you.

“Looking forward to it,” you say absently. “Look, camera three. Hold on...” You change the angle of the camera and there he is. “We've got an intruder.”

Jim makes a quiet  _oh_  of surprise, and you take a closer look. The man looks familiar. Jim comes closer and leans on your shoulders.

“Would you look at that,” he says, something like wonder in his voice.

Dark curly hair, pale, a little older than you remember him... “Hey, isn't that, what's his name, Sher-something?”

“Sherlock. Yes, it is, he's come out to play.”

You angle your head and take in the sharp cheekbones, the long legs. “He doesn't look half bad, does he?” you say speculatively.

“Don't even think about it,” Jim replies, briefly squeezing your shoulder.

Not that you ever would, of course, but it’s one of your games. Drop a hint and watch the possessiveness flare.

You watch as Holmes bends down over the lock of the door. “Shouldn't we do something about it?”

“No-o.” He pushes up and stretches, and you swivel around to look at him. “No, let him have his fun. This one was a boring one, anyway.”

You turn back. Holmes has stepped out of his hiding place and is confronting the burglar. No microphones, but you can guess how that conversation is going. One of the other screens shows the police arriving.

You can’t remember any of Jim’s clients being arrested before. Unless it was part of the plan, of course. You tilt your head back and look up at him. “Doesn't this damage your reputation?”

“If it's just this once, no. But if it happens again, I might need to do something.” He grins. “In fact, I might really enjoy that.”

The police has arrived and Holmes steps back with a smile that even on the cameras looks smug. You switch off the screens.

_***_

The church smells the way all churches do, a heavy cloying aroma of incense and wood, old and dusty. Jim loves churches though, the crucifixes and the paintings of martyrs. It's possible proof he was raised a Catholic, but then again it's  _Jim_. He knows everything about everything, and of course he's going to be fascinated by a religion that fetishises its dead and tortured.

You had a great-aunt who was a Catholic and who had a perverse delight in telling you about the martyrs. Upside-down crucifixions and torture wheels and breasts being cut off, interesting stuff to hear as an eight-year old, and you had been both appalled and fascinated. Even then you'd felt drawn to the macabre, the gruesome.

No wonder you ended up with Jim.

The church is empty apart from him. He’s looking at a painting close to the altar, hands folded behind his back. You move to his side.

The painting shows a mostly naked writhing man, tied to a tree and with several arrows protruding from his body. Martyrs again. The painter has done an exceptional job in capturing the look of agony on his face.

“Saint Sebastian,” Jim drawls.

“I guessed.”

“Hey, did you know he's the patron saint of - ”

“ _Yes_ , I know. Thanks for pointing that out.”

He opens his mouth to reply but before he can speak his eyes cut to the door. Someone else is coming in.

“Quick, don't let him see us.” He pulls you in the shadows and up a flight of stairs, which leads to the church organ. The shadows are deep enough to keep you hidden from anyone below.

Jim leans his arms on the railing, hands clasped loosely in front of him.

“Most people only come to church when they're desperate, did you know that?” he says softly. He nods at the man below. White hair, fifties, twisting a cap between his hands. Nothing special. “He doesn't believe in God, but he's dying. Alone. Cares about no one but his children, and he doesn't even get to see them. No meaning to his life anymore. Not even earning enough money to leave his kids something after his death. He's a cab driver, can you imagine? So he's grasping at whatever straws he can find.” He looks at you and grins, his too-wide devil's grin. “What do you say, shall we grant him some divine inspiration?”

He takes a sheet of paper out of his pocket and folds it into a plane, which he launches into the church. It glides down in a perfect circle and lands in front of the man, who looks up in surprise.

“What's it say?” you ask.

“Motivation. The promise of money,  _if_  he delivers. It'll keep everyone distracted for a while.” He curls his lip. “He's so full of himself, that one. So-o convinced he's smarter than everyone else, so angry, so arrogant.” He glances at you. “Reminds me of you, really.”

“Oh, fuck off,” you say affectionately. Down below, the man is leaving, his back a little straighter than before.

Jim turns around and leans on the railing. “So, we have a choice to make.”

“We do?”

He grins wide. “Do you want to fuck on the altar or in the pulpit?”

"The confessional,” you say. “ _Obviously_.”

He laughs, and he doesn’t stop laughing until you’ve got him in the dark cramped booth. “Tell me your sins,” you growl, and he pushes you down in the seat.

Twisted fuck.

***

Weeks pass and the weather turns colder. You spend New Year at home, in bed - no better way to celebrate the start of a whole new year than with sex. Work keeps coming, but in exactly the right amount - not too much to get swamped, not too little for Jim to get bored.

All in all, life is good.

“Remember James Damery?”

You blink and look up. Jim is standing in front of the mirror, buttoning up his shirt. You like watching him dress, like the precision of his movements, the delicate little tugs and twists. It’s a decent marker for his mood, as well: he’s a lot more aggressive with his clothing when he’s feeling edgy. But right now he seems relatively at ease.

“Damery, Seb?” Jim repeats.

“Hm? Oh. I'm going to need more than that.”

“Politician, bright young thing. The media love him.” He pulls a face at the mirror and you hide your smile. Jim isn't very  _fond_  of journalists and politicians. “He has a rival. Well,  _had_ , because - ”

“Right, I remember. The rival had an unfortunate accident. So?”

“Damery's getting cold feet.” He pulls on his jacket and straightens the lapels. “I need you to remind him whom he's dealing with.”

Perfect. There are few things you enjoy more than taking those arrogant bastards down a peg. “Where?”

“His club. In Carlton House Terrace.”

The name triggers something. “Wait, isn't that – "

“One of your father's old clubs.” He catches your eye in the mirror. “Don't worry, he's out of the country.”

“ _Good_.” You lean back in your chair. “He used to tell stories of that place. The hub of British diplomacy, it was.”

“Still is.” He opens a drawer and runs his fingers over the collection of ties inside. “Although the place has gone to the dogs lately,” he says, in that drawling arrogant accent of a peer over fifty. “Positively  _brimming_  with plebeians.”

You cock your head and watch him. He's scarily good at accents, but that one was spot-on. Almost too perfect.

He sees you looking and turns. “What?”

“Just wondering.”

" _What_ , Seb?” he says, a little impatient.

You shrug. “Well, first time I saw you I thought you were a – what do you call it? – a  _social climber_.”

“And now?” He knots his tie.

And that's the question, isn't it? Jim's knowledge is eclectic in the extreme. He knows entire arias by heart, can quote reams of lines from literature, write Greek and Latin, and all that screams  _elite education_ , except...

Except there's something in the way he deals with the upper classes, the old-school politicians and magistrates, that suggest something else. Disgust, hatred. A strange sort of resentment. It doesn't show up with the new rich, just with the pedigreed and privileged old money-people.

In those first few months you started working for him, you had even thought that might be one of the reasons why he employed you. To be his pet posh boy, his lord-on-a-leash, another fancy accessory in the same vein as his watch and his shoes. Something to advertise his status. It honestly wouldn't have been the first time. The army might have wreaked havoc on your Oxbridge accent and you might do your utmost to hide any other traces of your upbringing, but some things you can't hide, and to a certain type of person the idea of having an aristocrat to order around is irresistible.

But you hate the upper classes as much as he does and you were born into a six hundred-year-old line of Earls and Duchesses, so that doesn't really mean anything.

“Well? No theories?” he asks.

“No bloody clue,” you admit.

“I wasn't born rich,” he says, affixing a solid platinum tie pin to a five hundred pound tie. You sit up and watch him in the mirror, but he isn't looking at you. His eyes are distant, distracted in a way that you don't see often.

He doesn’t talk about his past. He just  _doesn’t_ , doesn’t reply when you ask about it, and definitely doesn’t bring it up himself.

“So maybe  _social climber_  isn't that far off the truth,” he continues. He tugs at the hem of his suit jacket.

You scoff. “Yeah, right.”

He turns and raises his eyebrows at you.

“You didn't  _climb_ , Jim, you set the whole fucking ladder on fire.”

***

It’s obvious what sort of place the club is, if you know where to look. There’s a sleek Mercedes parked only a few yards from the door, a driver reading his newspaper behind the wheel. And he isn’t the only one, there are fancy cars all around, some of them with unusual number plates.

You're reminded of that church Jim took you to when you go inside. The same typical smell, the same sacred silence that you're just  _dying_  to break. But no one looks at you twice. You look like you belong here, expensive suit, perfect posture, supercilious expression. If you had stayed on at Oxford this would probably be where you ended up. Going slowly insane.

You snap your fingers at one of the footmen and point at Damery, and he hurries off. You lean in the doorway, eyes sliding over the suited elite, the power behind the curtain. God, how you  _loathe_ them.

Damery looks up in surprise when the footman delicately touches his shoulder, but he shakes his head after one fleeting look at you.

Arrogant twat. You pull a notebook and a pen from your inside pocket with a smile and scribble  _M sent me_. The footman obediently delivers it, and when Damery folds it open he almost drops his teacup. Several frowning looks are sent in his direction -  _good lord what’s wrong with him, he made a noise_. He throws the note in the fireplace and practically runs to you. Amazing the difference just one letter can make.

You follow him to the Stranger's Room, that holiest of holies, where, if your father is to be believed, more than half of the most important decisions of the last century were made.

Thank god the bastard's out of the country right now. You don't exactly want to bump into him. Not that Jim would ever allow that to happen, of course. All ties with your past have been severed, he was very determined about that.

“What do you want?” Damery says when the door closes behind you. He's a big man, but his suit – new, bespoke – is too large for him, and he has that unhealthy look of someone who's lost a lot of weight in a short time.

You smile at him and sit down in one of the antique chairs. There’s an expensive looking wooden case sitting on a side table and you flip it open. “Ah, cigars. So you can smoke in here? I mean, it's technically illegal, but I'm sure you lot wouldn't let a little thing like a  _law_ stand between a gentleman and his pleasures.”

He sits down heavily and watches your hands as you light a cigar. “Moriarty sent you?” he asks, avoiding your eyes.

“Yes. He was worried, you see. There are a lot of rumours going around, about you stepping down, and he wanted to make sure that they were just that. Rumours, I mean.” You blow a circle of smoke at the ceiling. “Because you wouldn't do something as stupid as that, would you? Not after all the trouble Mr Moriarty went through for your sake.”

“I didn't think – it was never my intention... The woman’s in a coma, for god's sake!” he says, wringing his hands.

Your lip curls in disgust. “You wanted her out of the running, and now she is. It's a little too late to start whinging about the specifics, Sir James.”

“I cannot reconcile this, this  _crime_ with my conscience,” he says, voice quivering with, what? Earnestness? Remorse?

But he didn't go to the police either, did he? Fucking coward. “I suggest you find a way.”

He narrows his eyes at you, and now you can see traces of the passionate idealistic politician he's supposed to be. “Is that a threat?”

You laugh and put your cigar in the ashtray. “No-o, Sir James,  _this_ is a threat: if you don't call your press officer immediately and order her to prepare an official statement saying you're still in the running, I am going to take advantage of the fact that this room is soundproofed.”

You can see the exact moment that sentence sinks in. What little colour he had left drains from his face and his hands start to shake.

“You wouldn't  _dare_  – "

“Wanna bet,  _Sir James_?” you sneer, roughening your accent.

He dips a trembling hand in his suit jacket, pulls out a phone and presses the speed dial. “Hello Sandra? It's me. I need you to draw up a press release, denying the rumours that I'm out of the running. Yes, I'm going to run. No, look, I'll explain later, alright?” He looks at you. “Just, just do as you're told. Soon as. Yes, bye.” He drops the phone and puts his head in his hands, the very picture of despair. God, he’s pathetic.

“So how does it feel?” you ask, standing up.

He looks up. “Sorry?”

“Selling your principles for power. How's it feel?”

He gives a choked sob. You bare your teeth at him in a vicious parody of sympathy and pat him on the shoulder. “You'll get over it.”

You leave Damery to his ethical crisis and go back to the front desk, collecting your coat. As you're putting it on your eyes go back to the main room. There's a new man, standing in front of the fire, holding -

Holding what looks like the scorched remains of your note. He raises his head and looks straight at you. He looks no different from the other men here – forties, three-piece suit, standing like he's got a broomstick rammed up his arse – but there's something about his colourless eyes that reminds you forcefully of Jim.

You nod at him politely and leave as quickly as you can. There's something annoyingly familiar about his face, too. Not that that’s unusual, most of the diplomatic corps went to Oxford or Cambridge. It's a small, elitist, incestuous world.

Your phone rings as soon as you're outside. “He agreed,” you say, not wasting time.

Jim huffs. “Of course he did, he isn't stupid. How did he take it?”

“Pretty desperate. Might be a suicide risk,” you say with grim amusement.

“That would be inconvenient. But I don't think so, he didn't talk to the police either, did he?”

You hum, still thinking of the strange man.

“Seb? What  _is_ it, you sound distracted.”

“Nothi – ” and then you remember that it's  _Jim_ you're talking to. “I don't like those places, is all. And the people in them.”

“Hm,” he says, sounding sceptical. “Well, don't dawdle. I'll be home in a couple of hours.”

***

Once you're back home you head straight to Jim's filing room and his H-cabinet. You find the right folder – Holmes has got an entire drawer for himself, and that's not counting the stuff on the other floors – and open it. Inside there's a recent picture of Sherlock. Very light eyes, he has.

You rifle through the pages. It's all in code, but you're not interested in the text, and on the tenth page you find what you were hoping not to, a picture of the man that was staring at you in the club. You take a deep breath and turn it around.  _Mycroft Holmes_ , it says.  _The Iceman_.

Fuck.

“What are you doing?”

The papers go flying from your hands and you have to do a few undignified lunges to get them all back. “When the fuck did you get in?” you snap at Jim, who's looking at you suspiciously.

“Just now. Answer me.”

“I...” It's really tempting to lie about this. But even if he wouldn't see through you in less than a second, he would find out somehow, later, and then he'd be even more pissed off. “I  _might_  have bumped into Mycroft Holmes.”

“At the Diogenes?” Jim says, still frowning. “That's not unusual, but as long he doesn't connect you with me, you – ” He stops and cocks his head. “Seb? What did you do?” he asks softly.

“There might have been a note.”

Jim goes very, very still. But fuck it, you're not just another flunky he can shout at. You've been working for him for _years_ without any real mistakes, you're allowed some leniency.

“It just said  _M sent me_ ,” you say, 'He doesn't know it's – ”

“Of course he knows it's me, how stupid are you?” He starts to pace. “And now he knows I'm involved in this, he knows I've got Damery in my pocket, he knows  _you_  are involved...”

“No, he – Jim, look at me.” You take his arm and pull him around to face you. His eyes are ablaze, good thing there are no sharp or heavy objects nearby.

“He doesn't know who I am,” you say. “I'm just a face. He doesn't know my name. As far as he's concerned, I'm just another lackey.”

He lets out a long, shaking breath. “And if someone recognised you?”

“They didn't. It's been over fifteen years since any of  _them_ saw me, they won't recognise me.” You raise your hands, placating. “Calm down.”

Mistake. He wheels and backhands you across the face. “ _Calm down?_ ”he yells. “What are you, my fucking nursemaid?”

You spit blood on the carpet and straighten up, glaring.

He rubs his hand over his forehead. “I need to think about this. Get out, you're distracting.”

“Fuckin'  _fine_ ,” you snap and stalk to the door.

“ _And don't come back until I tell you_!” he shouts after you.

***

You wander around London for hours, buying fish and chips from a stand, looking at the people, the shops. The newspapers are full of some banker's unexpected suicide, the grieving widow in full close-up on the front page.

You fucked up. Simple as that. And now you're half expecting a red dot to appear on your chest, or a push in your back as you’re waiting for the traffic lights, any minute now. You can't even be arsed to look for potential threats. If the choice is between life without Jim or death, you'd happily blow your brains out yourself.

It's almost midnight when he calls.

“Where are you?” he asks. He sounds a little tired, which is unusual. You’ve never met anyone who’s got quite as much control over his voice as Jim.

“I'm in Hyde - ” you turn around and see him standing at the other side of the Serpentine. “Hyde Park. Calmed down a bit, then?”

Even from this distance you can see him smile and look down. “Get over here.”

You put your phone back, cross the bridge and stand beside him, looking at the sleeping ducks. “So you're not going to chop me into bits and feed me to the birds, are you?” you ask casually.

He snorts. “No, it would be too much trouble.”

“Good to know.”

He reaches into your pocket and pulls out your fags. You get your lighter and carefully light the cigarette as he puts it between his lips. He looks calm again, if a bit thoughtful.

“What is about them?” you ask after a while. “The Holmes brothers.”

“They're like me,” Jim says. “Well, similar, but boring. The kiddie version.  _Censored_.” He closes his eyes and the tip of his cigarette flares red. ”Still, they're clever, and they’ll try to see beyond the smoke and mirrors. Spot the threads.” He taps ash off his cigarette. “They’re a challenge.”

“I'll be more careful next time.”

“There won't be a next time.”

You raise your eyebrow. "Can you rephrase that? Sounded a bit too much like a death threat."

"I'm going to make sure your paths won't cross again," he says. He takes another deep drag. "Because the mistake, darling, was as much mine as it was yours. I should have expected the Iceman would  _join the dots_.” He pulls a face for those last three words, angry and mocking, but it's gone before you can blink and he looks tired again. He yawns.

“Go on, let's go home,” you say. “They're closing up anyway, and I don't fancy hauling you over the trellis.”

***

You wake up abruptly.  _Threat_.

You open your eyes wide and try to find out what's wrong. It's still dark, although the light from outside is spilling into the bedroom, enough to see by. You're in your bedroom, on your own ground, and everything's quiet, so why...

Next to you, Jim twists in his sleep and kicks you in the shin, muttering. There's your answer.

He has nightmares, Jim. It surprised you when you first found out, you couldn't imagine what a man like him would have to fear. But the thing is, he's never afraid when he's awake. Only when he closes his eyes, when he surrenders himself to his own subconscious, does he get scared.

It makes sense, in a way, that the only things Jim would fear are things he conjures up himself.

You roll onto your side and watch him toss and turn. Most of the time you try to ignore it and let him sleep it off, ‘cause he doesn't like to be seen when he's vulnerable. On the other hand he doesn't look like he's having much fun now.

His arms flails and almost hits you in the face. You grab him just above the elbow and squeeze. “Jim. Wake up.”

He tosses his head violently, murmurs something that sounds only vaguely like language.

“ _Jim_.” You shake him a bit.

His eyes fly open and he stops moving, staring unseeing at the ceiling. You try to let go of his arm without him noticing, but of course he does – he never misses anything, even when he's like this – and he's on you in a matter of seconds, hands crushing your windpipe.

You have to fight your own reflexes, to keep your hands light on his forearms without trying to fight him. “Jim,” you say, half choking, “it's just me. You're fine.”

He relaxes his grip a little, but he still looks spooked.

“It's fine. You're safe,” you say, trying to sound soothing. Not that you're particularly good at that, but it seems to work. His eyes go a little less mad. He looks down at his hands, then back at you.

“You're fine,” you repeat softly. His lip curls in contempt, hard to tell if it's directed at you or himself.

He lets go of you and clambers off the bed. You bury your head in the pillows and try to get back to sleep. Not that you've got much hope that will happen, with adrenaline coursing through your veins and the sound of his footsteps on the wooden floor.

After a few minutes of listening to Jim pacing you give up and sit back up, rubbing at your eyes. “You want to talk about it?”

“What?” he says irritably. He's wearing a pair of your old tracksuit bottoms, god knows where he found those, and the baggy trousers combined with his hair standing up at every odd angle make him look oddly young.

“You know, whatever it is that made you panic at five in the morning.”

“So you can comfort me and tell me it's all a dream?” He sneers. “Thanks, but I think I'll pass.”

You watch him pace, arms on your knees, waiting just in case he changes his mind. Up and down he goes, left, right, left again. He's shivering, but that's probably just the cold.

Up and down, up and down, hands spasming, face closed off. You wait.

Eventually he crosses the room and sits down on the edge of the bed, buries his head in his hands. He looks miserable.

“It must be so easy, being you,” he says after a while. “Just a simple little mind, one thought at the time, slo-ow, steady, boring little minds.”

You stay quiet, because what can you say, really? It's frustrating, watching him wrestle with himself like this. There is absolutely nothing you can do.

Although...

“One voice at the time,” he says, almost whining, “ideas moving like tectonic plates, it must be so  _easy_...”

Get this wrong and you end up with his hands around your throat again. But if it helps, even a little bit...

Why the hell not. You take his shoulder and pull him off balance, dragging him around so he's under you. His hands claw at your shoulders and his eyes go wide with surprise.

“Shut up,” you growl, and kiss him.

It takes a few seconds before he responds, but when he does, it's spectacular. He leaves deep painful scratches everywhere he touches, and he's frantic, doesn't pause for a second. You try to get a hand to his cock but he's too quick, it's like trying to catch air. He ends up rutting against you and you can do nothing but hold his shoulders until he comes, his eyes screwed shut and biting his lip hard enough to draw blood.

He pushes you off immediately after that, getting up again, leaving you and your hard-on to your own devices. You roll onto your side and reach for the tissues. It’s not the first time he has just taken what he wants and forgotten about you afterwards, and this was meant to about him anyway, but, well. It’s never nice, being discarded and ignored. Always takes you back to those first months.

When you've taken care of the problem and cleaned up the mess you look up to see him standing at the window. The shaking and twitching seems to have mostly disappeared.

So sex really does solve everything.

You crawl back under the blankets and Jim closes the curtains, replacing the yellow glow of the streetlights with shifting shadows. You close your eyes, post-orgasmic sleepiness already settling in. You roll onto your back. The inside of Jim’s head is not something you can, or even want to understand. Scary place. Best not to dwell.

The bed dips and you move aside a bit, giving him space. You did your job, really, protecting him from whatever it is that threatens him, even if it happens to be his own -

His arm comes up around your waist and your eyes fly open, right awake again. Jim does not, generally speaking, cuddle, and it's really fucking weird to feel him nestling against your side like this, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his leg between yours. You put a tentative arm around his shoulders and he burrows even closer, making a quiet noise in the back of his throat. It's more feral than tender, an animal instinct for body heat and touch, but it seems to give him peace.

Even so, it takes a long while before you start to drift off again.

***

You wake up with a heavy weight on your shoulder.

A soft snore. You open your eyes. Jim is lying half on top of you, arm around your waist, head on your chest. Seems like he hasn’t moved since he fell asleep, which is unusual. Even when he's not having nightmares he tosses and turns like he's trying to escape something.

You brush the hair from his forehead. With those eyes of his closed his face looks pale, soft, vulnerable. More _human_ than he ever looks when he’s awake. 

The snoring stops and he shifts a little. There’s a moment where he briefly freezes, when he probably realises where he is and remembers, but he relaxes soon enough.

The first time you witnessed one of his breakdowns, he woke you up the next morning with a knife to your throat and his face a rictus of fury. You had to pull out all the stops to get him to calm down again. He probably won’t ever lose that initial moment of panic, but at least it doesn’t last anymore.

He runs his hand up over your chest and down again. He’ll have noticed you’re awake, he always does. You rub tiny circles on the top of his shoulder.

“What’s the time?” he asks, voice slurred with sleep.

You crane your neck and look at the clock. “Nine thirty.”

He makes a noise and wriggles around a bit underneath the sheets. He only closed the overcurtains, not the thick blackout ones, and the morning light is just beginning to fall into the room. It makes the room feel very comfortable, cosy. Very different from the spooky shadows of last night. Maybe that’s part of what sets him off, that darkness pressing in from all sides.

“Have you always had them?” you ask.

Jim freezes. You can feel the sudden tension in his shoulder, his arm, and you could kick yourself. Of course he doesn’t want to talk about this.

But then he slowly relaxes again. “Yes,” he says. “But they weren’t always… They got worse.”

You trail your knuckles down over his arm. The price of brilliance. You’ve often thought of Jim’s mind as a caged animal, turning on itself in the absence of other distractions. Tearing itself apart from the inside. What was it he said? _It must be so easy, being you_. And maybe, compared to him, he’s right.

“Did it help, at least?” you ask.

He burrows a little closer. “Yes.”

“Good.” Your hand goes back to his nape. “We should probably get up.”

“Mm, not yet.”

And that’s a little unusual. Jim usually gets up at unreasonably early hours, not really one for lazy mornings. The only exception is after one of those all-night sex marathons, when he’s so exhausted on every possible level that even he sees the benefits of a good long sleep.

Not that you’re going to complain. Both Eton and the army were very keen on early rising, and as a consequence you still consider sleeping in something of a luxury.

“Although we should,” he says. “We’re leaving for Germany today.”

“We are?” You look down at him. His eyes are still closed. “Why?”

“Hackers. They’re saying they developed a new type of virus. I want to go and see.”

“Is this a spur of the moment thing, or did you just forget to tell me?”

“It’s adapting to the circumstances.”

You stay silent for a while, running your fingers through his hair. “Because Holmes saw me?” you ask at last

Two deep breaths before he answers. “It’s one of the reasons, yes.”

Running away after being discovered. “Are we… Do you think they're onto us?"

He huffs. “Hardly. No, it’s just a precaution, really.”

“Alright." You trail your hand down to his neck and shoulder. "So, when’s the flight?”

Another silence, meaning he’s mentally running through the flight schedules. “Eight fifteen,” he says after a couple of seconds.

“Then we still have plenty of time.” You give him a gentle nudge, he opens his eyes and sits up a little, and you lean in for a kiss.

He backs away at the last moment, nose scrunched up in disgust. “Morning breath.”

You laugh and fall back to the pillow. “So you want me to go and gargle before I can fuck you?”

“At the very least.”

“Right. Well, then we might as well do this in the shower, then.” You slide out of bed and cross your arms. Jim sits up and yawns, stretches. His eyes fall to the crumpled tissues on the bedside table and he blinks.

“You weren’t exactly feeling very reciprocal last night,” you say wryly.

He grins and licks his lips. “Well, go to the shower and I'll make it up to you.”

***

You arrive at Frankfurt Airport an hour and a half later than planned because of the snow. London was chilly but Frankfurt is _freezing_ , and you were never very fond of low temperatures. You throw your arms around your shoulders the second you step out of the plane, chafing your arms, and glower until you're in the safe warmth of the rental car. Jim just laughs at your discomfort. He seems to have no problems at all with the cold.

The hackers turn out to have an underground base, very James bond. No wonder Jim wanted to come and see,  'cause he does love the supervillain stuff. In fact, the whole thing is a bit like a holiday for him: mucking about with computers, messing with the heads of the crew, and filling the nights in the fancy hotel room with increasingly creative sex, even by your standards.

And while he is playing, you sift through the never-ending stream of requests for help and advice from all over the world. He's pretty selective, but by now you can make a pretty good guess as to what he considers interesting.

Like a branch of a Chinese Tong looking for passage to the UK, that should keep him occupied. You put the case on the shortlist.

The door slams open and one of the hackers shows up, with the shocked and dazed expression of someone who's seen Jim Moriarty in one of his stranger moods.

“Alright,  _was hat er getan_?” you ask wearily.

She opens her mouth and shuts it again, obviously at a loss how to describe the situation. You roll your eyes and get up.

His laughter is audible from the corridor, loud and wild and completely unrestrained, an evil, insane cackle. Talk about supervillains. You throw the door open and it hits the wall with a loud bang that startles everyone inside.

Jim hiccups and turns to you. “Seb! Sebastian, darling, you –” and he breaks off cackling.

“ _Rauss_ ,” you say to the few people who are still hanging around, jerking your thumb to the door. They scatter gratefully.

You close the door and lean against it, crossing your arms. “Scaring the normals, Jim,” you point out after a moment.

He snorts, still giggly. “They're always scared.” He spins around on his chair, smiling blissfully. It's one of his more dangerous expressions.

“Going to share the joke?”

He spins to a halt in front of you. “What? Oh.” He grins. “Our Sherlock's making friends.”

“And that's funny, is it?”

“No-o, the funny part is – here, look,” and he takes hold of your tie and pulls you to the screen. You have no choice but to follow, one hand on the desk and one on his shoulder to keep your balance. “ _That's_  his new friend.”

There's a picture of a sandy-haired man in his late thirties, looking perfectly ordinary. You don’t get it. You frown at Jim, and he gives your tie an impatient pull. You turn back to the screen, skimming the text, and –

“Fucking  _hell_ ,” you say, impressed, and glance sideways at Jim again. He's fingering your tie absently, still looking cheerful. “You reckon they'll end up shagging too?”

Jim bursts out in laughter again. “Wouldn't that be  _darling_?”

***

It takes a careful mix of persuasion, reassurance and outright threats before the others dare to come inside again. Once Jim’s giggle fit is over he’s the perfect gentleman again for the rest of the day, because he does like being unpredictable, keeping people on their toes.

But for the rest of the day your thoughts keep straying. Sherlock Holmes and Mycroft Holmes. The detective and the civil servant. There’s something about Jim when he talks about him, something more than his usual interest. _They’re like me_. But they can’t be, surely?

“Tell me about him,” you say once you’re back in the privacy of the hotel room.

Jim, sprawled fully-clothed on the bed, doesn’t open his eyes. “Who, the Virgin?”

“Yeah. Why do you call him that, for one thing?”

“The obvious reason.”

You laugh. “What, _really_? But he’s, what, late twenties? Early thirties? And never fucked _anyone_?”

“Not a single person,” Jim says, smiling.

“ _Why_?” you ask. “Is he… what’s it called again, like voluntary celibacy…”

“Asexual?” He pulls a considering face. “Possibly. I’m not entirely sure. Could be a number of things, really. “

You lean forward, elbows on your knees. “And how did you find him?”

“He found me.”

 “Really?”

“Well, sort of.” He looks up at the ceiling. “I was… young. Made a slight mistake. He picked it up, tried to do something with it. But he didn’t find out about me.” He gives you a look. “ _Obviously_.”

You lean back again. “So that’s what you meant when you said he’s like you, right? He can see through your tricks?”

“Yes. It makes him interesting.”

“Makes him _dangerous_ , if you ask me.”

“Same difference.” He sinks a bit deeper into his pillows, lost in thought.

He looks... not happy, really, but excited. Like a kid opening a christmas present and discovering a new toy. It's not hard to think why, because the bane of Jim's existence is  _boredom_. He's at his most dangerous when there isn't much work and London's criminal underworld is behaving and there's nothing to feed his always-hungry mind except you. Sherlock Holmes, brilliant detective, must seem like a godsend to him. 

“I still think you’re wrong, though,” you say.

He gives you a sharp look. “Wrong?”

“Yeah. About them being like you?” You grin. “If you ask me, you are pretty fucking unique.”

He doesn’t smile back.

***

A couple of days later you go back to London. There's something oddly reassuring about it, being back in a familiar environment. Because you know London like the back of your hand now, can navigate the city centre with your eyes closed. 

You step out of the car and grin up at the flat.

Jim gives you a look. "Glad to be back?"

"Sort of, yeah. Isn't that what they say, _the best part of going away is coming back home_?" 

He snorts and opens the door. "Only boring people say that, if you ask me."

"So you're not happy to be back?" you ask, following him to the lift.

He stays silent for a while. Only when the lift reaches the top floor he says, "No, I am. It's good to be here."

And that's it, slightly cryptic as usual. You open the door and step inside, go check all the rooms, just in case one of Jim's experiments exploded or grew sentient, or some poor bastard tried to break in. But everything is in order. The flat feels empty, barren, even though you've only been away for two weeks. Like it's been holding its breath while you’re away, only relaxing again when the both of you step through the door again.

Although part of that is just the practicalities, the empty cupboards and fridge.

“I’m going down the shops,” you say, coming back to the living room where Jim is already sitting behind his laptop. “Need anything?”

“The lube’s running out,” he says absently.

“What, again? Do you _drink_ the damn stuff?”

He gives you a look. “You know exactly where most of it ends up. Go buy a new bottle or prepare to get creative.”

You smile. It has happened before, a miscalculation in supplies that left you going frantically through the kitchen cupboards desperately looking for something slippery and non-irritant.

“Right. Anything…” You trail off. His screen is showing a video image of a woman. “Who's she, then?”

“Shan. Head of the Tong.”

“Ah, those." You pull a chair up and lean on his shoulders. "Found a way to get them here, then?”

“Make them pretend to be a circus.”

“ _What_?” you say, laughing.

He gives you an injured look. “It will work.”

“One of these days one of your clients is going to realise you are actually taking the piss, you know.”

He snorts. “They won’t. Not clever enough for that. Besides, it’s not like it doesn’t work. Now shush.”

You fall silent. The woman licks her lips and looks nervously down the camera. Jim turns up the volume.

“ _Thank you again, Mr Moriarty_ ,” she says.

Jim starts typing.

“Why aren’t you doing this by email, anyway?” you ask.

“Curiosity.” He glances up at you. “There’s something strange about this one.”

“Good strange or bad strange?”

Jim looks back at his screen and bares his teeth. “Interesting strange.”

“ _A circus_?” Shan says, disbelieving.

You lean closer to see what he’s typing. _Above all suspicion. No one will guess. You will get to London without a problem if you do exactly as I say._

She opens her mouth to reply but then Jim starts typing again.

 _So you can retrieve your pin_.

Shan’s mouth falls open. “ _I’m – I did not mean to –_ ”

You whistle through your teeth. “Whoops. Someone been keeping secrets?”

Jim clucks his tongue. “Silly woman. Trying to convince me she was only coming here just to take care of an ex-employee. As if I’d be interested in _baubles_ in the first place.”

 _Do not hide things from me_ , he types, and then he closes the window, shutting the conversation down.

“Scary,” you say drily.

“You’d think people would have _learned_ by now, wouldn’t you?” Jim muses. “Anyway. Shopping?”

“Right.” You put your hands on his shoulders and push back up. “Anything else you need?”

"Sulphuric acid. Well, drain cleaner, that'll do the trick. And a frozen turkey, if you can find one."

You put your coat on. "So, acid, a turkey, and an extra-large bottle of lube? Quite the shopping list. You realise I'm going to get strange looks?"

He leans back and grins at you. "Honestly, darling, if you aren't used to strange looks by now..."

You open the door and get your wallet. "As long as they don't call the police I'm fine with them thinking I'm a very weird kind of pervert."

"Who says you _aren't_?" Jim yells after you.

You flip him the finger without looking back, grinning widely.

***

When you get back Jim is still sitting at the table, several pieces of paper filled with scribbles spread around.

“Busy?” you ask.

“Very. Don’t disturb.”

You deposit the bags in the kitchen and drop down on the sofa, switch the telly on. The news is on, a journalist reporting enthusiastically on the latest murder mystery. You recognise Jim's style even before the face of the murderer, the cab driver from the church.

“How did he get caught, then?” you ask, watching as they show the pictures of the victims.

“Sherlock's little friend shot him, apparently.”

You lean your head against the back of the couch and look at Jim. “The army doctor? What was he doing there?”

“Protecting Sherlock, I suppose.” He leans back and cracks his neck. “Isn't it adorable?

You turn your attention back to the screen. Some good-looking copper is describing the murders, something about two pills, a forced choice. Exactly the sort of sadistic twist Jim is so fond of. But how the hell did Holmes get involved?

“Was this some kind of bait?” you ask suspiciously.

He sighs and gets up, walking to the couch. He puts his hands on your shoulders, thumbs digging into the muscles of your back. “Partly.”

You tilt your head back and he slides down a bit, wrapping his arms around your neck. He’s still looking at the screen, eyes intent.

“He's really getting to you, isn't he?” you ask.

“Don't try to analyse me, darling, it's bound to end badly.”

You switch the television off and wrap your fingers around his wrists. “I thought you were busy.”

“I decided it was time for a break.” He gently bites the top of your ear.

You trace the line of his tendons. “Just in case...”

“Hm?” he says, teeth at your earlobe. Making his way down.

“I'm going to draw the line at putting on a long coat and and a curly wig.”

“That line isn't yours to draw, darling,” he says against your neck.

“Try me,” you say, and reach back and pull him over the back of the couch.

_***_

The cabbie-murders need clean up, but not the fun kind. You have to go through all police records, making sure nothing can be traced back to Jim. It’s mind-numbing work. Although there’s some amusement in reading the badly-spelled, ungrammatical reports - coppers obviously aren’t chosen because of their literary prowess. The only decent ones are the one by the DI, who skilfully skirts around the details of the cabby’s death, and one by a sergeant, who seems to have spotted the incongruence but doesn’t want to get in trouble by pointing it out.

“Finished?” Jim asks.

“Just about.” You lean back and look at him. He’s holding his phone and there’s a strange expression on his face. “What’s up?”

“Shan.” He walks closer, still with that strange face. “Lost her pin. And her crew as well.”

You blink. You can’t remember the last time a plan of his blew up. “What went wrong?”

“Sherlock.”

“ _Again_?”

He smiles. “Yes, yes, I know, I’ll deal with him. But right now we have clean-up to do. Grab your rifle, Seb.” His smile turns a little sinister. “No loose ends.”

***

He goes into planning mode for the next few days.

He's done it before a couple of times, going quiet and withdrawn before exploding in a burst of manic energy. Plotting out all eventualities, creating and discarding plan after plan until he’s got something that satisfies his insane perfectionist standards.

You pull off your jacket and holster. There’s not much you can do except wait. He’s been languishing on the sofa for an entire week now, was still there when you left this morning, ankles crossed and humming absently.

But the sofa is empty now. “Jim?”

He sticks his head out of the bedroom. His hair is a bit tousled, but that's not the only unusual thing about him. His eyes widen when he spots you. “Oh, er,” he says, all flustered and adorable, and looks down shyly. “Hi?” he adds hopefully after a few seconds of uneasy shuffling.

You look him up and down. “Your posture's wrong,” you say critically.

“Is it? Damn.” And he disappears back into the bedroom.

Even though you've seen him do this dozens of times before, it's still a bit scary, how easily he drops his character, how fluid the transition is between a confused smile and his own irritated frown. He snaps his fingers and he’s a different person.

You shake your head and follow him to the bedroom.

He’s posing in front of the mirror, trying out expressions. You lean against the wall and put your hands in your pockets, watching him. He’s brilliant at this, able to craft entire personalities and histories with a hunch of his shoulder, a smile, a nervous tic.

One time he did you. Seeing all your own characteristics and body language copied was arguably one of the most disturbing things you've ever seen.

So, who is he now? Twitchy movements, avoidant eye-contact, a general vibe of uneasiness... Not a social person.

“Admin?” you ask.

“IT.”

You snigger and he looks at you in the mirror. “What?” he snaps. Bad mood, then.

“You'll go mental after three hours.”

“The faith you have in my abilities is positively heart-warming,” he says, all biting sarcasm, and you're really going to have to tread carefully here.

He messes with his hair, leans forward and looks at his eyes, then turns and gives his own arse a critical look. “This,” he says in his own voice, “is Jim Ellis, thirty-two, just moved to London, doesn't make friends easily, bit of a geek. Gay, but still firmly in the closet.”

“Obviously.”

“Obviously?” he says sharply.

“Checking me out a bit too openly, there. So, let me guess, his type's tall, dark and arrogant?”

“Got it in one.” He leers at you. “You might just get lucky.”

“I'm  _confident_ , not arrogant.”

“Says you.” He twirls around and spreads his arms wide. “What do you think? Do I pass?”

You take in the expensive underwear, the v-neck, the self-conscious body language, and you feel a little annoyance at him already; you never could stand the cringing ones. And if he can create that effect even on you, who’s known him for years... “You'll do.”

“Good.” He pulls off his shirt and drops it on the floor. “Prick.”

You don't entirely get the way Jim changes into different people, but it’s more than just acting. It seems to border on multiple personality disorder sometimes, ‘cause he always needs a few days to shake off a different personality, little gestures and tics of people he pretended to be cropping up again long after he's stopped.

The quickest way to pull him out of it is violence or sex, or both. And considering he's already standing naked in his bedroom...

“You're drooling,” Jim says indulgently.

“Just wondering if you were feeling any need to, er, work off the tension?”

“Well, if you're offering...” He stalks to bed. “But make it quick, I've got work to do.” He flops down, reclining in what is obviously meant to be a seductive pose. “Go on then,  _ravish_  me.”

“You the innocent maiden now, Jim?” you say, pulling off your shirt. He flutters his eyelashes and you burst out laughing at the absurdity.

“Ooh, Sebastian,” Jim thrills in a falsetto voice. “Whatever will you  _do_  to me?”

You kick off your shoes. “Has anyone ever told you what a perverted sick fuck you are?” you ask fondly.

He widens his eyes. “I'm sure I have no idea what you mean.”

You drop your trousers in a heap on the floor and crawl on top of him, getting as much skin contact as possible. Jim's breathing is starting to come faster.

“Well, Sebastian,” he says, soft but in his own voice again, “are you going to make me  _beg_?”

“I'm not that fucking ambitious.”

He pulls you down and kisses you. It feels off, too sweet and slack and gentle – Jim usually kisses like he’s going for the jugular. Must be the IT-bloke, still stuck in his system. Which offers _possibilities_.

You break off, grab his shoulder and turn him bodily over. He flails but doesn’t make a sound, doesn’t protest, doesn’t fight back. All wrong.

You get one of his huge soft pillows and shove it under his hips, making his arse nice and accessible. He pushes up onto his hands and looks over his shoulder. You put your hands on your arse, lean down. Give him a smirk and slowly lick down.

He shivers and drops back. It’s playing dirty on your part, because he absolutely hates this. Well, hate-loves, in a way that usually makes him attack you unless you got the handcuffs out. But right now his only reaction is a whimper and his fingers tightening in the sheets. You shove his thighs further open, wide enough to be uncomfortable, and push your tongue against his arsehole, feel the muscle tighten.

But still no protest. You lick your lips and go down again, loosening him up to the best of your ability, long licks and careful prods and the occasional graze of teeth – but nothing too much, nothing painful. Nowhere near the intensity he wants. He gives a long, drawn-out moan, and his knees dig into the mattress.

You put a finger in your mouth and get it thoroughly wet, and then you push it in and angle up. His hips jerk forward. A quick glance up shows he’s coming close to tearing the sheets. You put your mouth back, just the one finger gently curling up inside of him, tongue edging in as well. He must be _dying_ of frustration.

“Seb,” he moans.

You give an enquiring hum, which of course only makes him moan again. Go on, what’s he waiting for? The only way to provoke him further would be to start using pet names, and that might be one step too far.

And then finally he snaps out of it. His heel kicks hard against your side and he sits up, grabs your neck and pulls you off. He flips you over and pins your wrists together with one hand, other on your throat. The look on his face is close to murderous.

“Hello again,” you say, smirking.

“Think you’re so clever, do you?” He leans down and nips at your earlobe. “How would you like a taste of your own medicine?” he whispers.

You buck, try to throw him off. He simply goes with it, no give.

He laughs and crawls over you. “Lucky for you I’m in a hurry.” He turns again, his knee on your stomach as he leans off the bed. He straightens back up holding your belt in one hand, a tube in the other.

“Does Jim-the-IT-nerd have a bondage fetish, then?” you ask, grinning.

“Jim-the-IT-nerd is no longer in the picture.” He loops the belt around your wrists and tightens it. The leather digs into your skin, sending a sharp shock of pain down your nerves.

“Yeah, I can see that.”

A hard tug at your wrists turns you around again. You lean down on your elbows, knees open, arse in the air, ready for his probing fingers. It’s strange, that belt around your wrists is doing nothing much in the way of restraint, but the simple pressure of it is inignorable.

But that's Jim, knowing exactly what to do to get your attention. You may be able to look inside his head a bit now, but you never forget Jim pretty much holds the detailed manual to the innermost workings of your being.

He does give you the courtesy of a reach-around, although that’s probably only because of the time constraints. You have very little doubt he’d enjoy keeping you on edge like this for hours if he had the time. But as it is, it doesn’t take more than a few minutes before he finishes. And he's even feeling generous enough to keep his hand on your cock even after he's pulled out. You come with a pillow between your teeth and the feel of his come trickling down your thigh.

You fall down onto your side, bound hands in front of you. “Every – every _single fucking time_ ,” you say, panting.

“Hm?”

“You.” You shake your head. “Never mind. Can you undo these?” You hold up your hands.

He cocks his head. “I can. But I’m not going to.”

“Fine,” you say, rolling your eyes. You try to get your thumbs free and give him a look. “So Jim the IT nerd, that’s for Holmes, right?”

“It is.”

“Worked out what you’re going to do to him, then?”

He cracks one eye open and smiles. “I’m not going to kill him. Not yet, anyway.”

 “So what are you going to do, then?”

“Play.” He grins. “I’m going to have my fun with him first.”

 _Play_ , in Jim’s language, can mean a hell of a lot of things. You roll your head. “Care to elaborate?”

“Challenges.” He sits up. “I’m going to give him a puzzle and see exactly how clever he is. No sense in wasting my time on a useless idiot, is there?”

You cough.

“Didn’t mean you,” Jim says. “You might be an idiot but you do have your uses. Case in point,” he adds, with a significant look at the bed.

“Glad to be of service.” You pull the belt free with your teeth and pull it off triumphantly. “Alright then. Let’s get the bastard.”

***

He spends the next few days collecting all necessary information and finishing up the last details. Well, he does when he’s got free time on his hands, because Jim-the-nerd spends his nine to fives and the occasional night shift IT’ing in St Bart's. Which means he’s away from home a lot.

Although he does come back with _very_ intriguing stories.

“A _date_?” you repeat, laughing.

“Didn’t need much effort, even. Poor girl’s dying for some affection.” He reaches out and steals a slice of apple from the counter, legs swinging.

“That’s what you’re going to do, then? Give her some _affection_?”

His foot nudges your side. “Feeling a twinge of jealousy, are we?”

“Hardly. More a twinge of sympathy and commiseration.”

"For me?"

"For the girl."

He kicks your side in retaliation. You wave your knife at him. "Watch it. And, is it worth it?"

He yawns and stretches. The night shifts are taking their toll. “Well, she’s full of useful information. And not that uninteresting, really, in a way.” He drops his arms and pulls a face. “But so _nice_.”

“Yeah, who the hell would want to fuck someone _nice_ , eh?” you say, giving him a look.

He pats your shoulder. “Don’t ever change, darling. Right, work to do.”

He slides off the counter and wanders off to the living room, where several piles of folders are waiting to be categorised. Leaving you to cooking. Something which you’re still not that good at, truth to be told. The natural consequence of living off communal kitchens for twenty-odd years.

“Who would you give the boot if you could?” Jim calls after a while.

You put the pot back on the stove and lean in the doorway, run all the associates you've met through your mind. “Ewart. Of the car thing. Janus, wasn't it? Slimy git.”

“Couldn't agree more. That's one.” He puts a file on the couch.

“One what?”

“The food's burning,” he says idly. You run back to the kitchen and rescue tonight's dinner.

“Aha!” he shouts after a while. “Another one. Can you speech Czech?”

“Not a word,” you shout back.

“Learn to, you're going to Prague.”

“Why don't you go? You speak Czech, don't you?” You take the bubbling pot off the stove. “You speak everything,” you mutter under your breath.

“Not quite,” he says, appearing suddenly behind your back, the way he does sometimes. You're half convinced he can teleport.

“I’m assuming this is for Holmes?”

He nods. “Picking my sacrificial lambs.”

“Right. What's in Prague?” you ask, looking at him.

“An assassin. You remember that painter in Argentina? The Vermeer?" He leans against the counter, arms crossed. "There's already someone nosing around. Needs to be disposed of, and it's a perfect one to give to Sherlock.”

“And why not let me do the job?”

And  _gone_ is his cheerful mood. He goes very quiet, eyes dark. “From this moment,” he says slowly, “you are going to do exactly what I tell you, no room for interpretation or improvisation or anything, got it?”

“I always do what you tell me.” You frown. You don’t understand where this is coming from, he’s never really minded you taking your initiative.

“I mean it,” he says, still serious. “You're not coming anywhere  _near_  this one. I don't want you implicated.”

“Fine, got it. I'll be careful.” He relaxes a little. He wants to protect you? That’s a first. “So you're bringing in is this Czech assassin for, what, a taste of the exotic?”

“Hmm. And as a red herring, see if he picks it up.”

“And then what?”

“I'm still thinking on that. Although...” He trails off and stares in the distance. “Ooh, that would be exciting...”

You turn around and take the pot off the fire. “Food's done.”

He comes back to Earth and gives the pot in your hands a disdainful look. “You really are an awful cook, do you know that?”

“I'd suggest you cook instead, but I wouldn't trust a bite of whatever you prepared.”

He puts his hand theatrically against his chest. “You distrust me, Seb? I'm hurt.”

“You'll get over it. Now sit down and tell me what you want me to do.”

***

Prague is sombre, cold, and bloody incomprehensible. You don't understand a word they're saying, but even here the mere mention of Moriarty is enough to make certain people take notice.

They send you on a wild goose chase, going from one major landmark to the other, the Wenceslas Square, beneath the Charles Bridge, all in the freezing wind. You complain to Jim about it on the phone, whose only reaction is to tell you to  _suck it up, darling_. Compassionate man, your boss.

Eventually you're back beneath the Charles Bridge, cursing non-stop beneath your breath, when the Golem finally shows up.

You look up. And up.

Typical fucking Jim not to mention this.

“Mr Dzundza?” you ask, tripping over the name. Bloody Czech.

He doesn't say anything and stares down at you. You're not easily intimidated but  _damn_. You clear your throat. “Mr Moriarty has a job for you.”

“Moriarty,” he repeats slowly, voice like thunder, rolling his r's.

“Right, him. He needs you to kill these two people in London.” You give him the pictures. At least, you hold out the pictures for ten whole seconds before he takes them and gives them a look.

“Kill,” you repeat. “Töten. Tuer? Matar?” There's no response. “Can you do it?”

He looks back at you. “Yes.”

“Good,” you say dubiously. “Well, I'll, er, leave you to it then. Pleasure doing business with you.”

You can feel him staring at your back all the way back up to the bridge. Once you're back in the streets you call Jim. He answers after the third ring with a quiet  _hi._

“Next time you send me to hire an actual fairytale monster, bloody  _mention_ it beforehand, will you?”

The phone crackles and you can hear him say in the background, lisping, “Sorry, Molly, love, I need to take this.”

Molly. The things Jim is willing to put up with, all to get close to that curly-haired git. From what he’s told you she seems to be the world’s sweetest, most awkward, and innocent girl. You feel sorry for both of them, really.

“Did I interrupt something?” you ask, grinning.

You can hear a door close on the other end. “A four hour marathon of Glee. Dear God, I was this close to jumping out of the window and killing myself. Do we have the Golem?”

“Yes. At least I think so.”

“What do you mean, you _think so_?” he asks sharply.

“He isn't exactly the chatty type. But calm down, he said yes, I'm sure he'll do it.”

“Good.” He breathes out. “And the paper?”

“Got that as well.” Although fuck knows why he suddenly needs foreign stationery.

“Excellent. Come back as soon as you can, things are about to kick off.”

“Will do. Don't kill yourself. Or the girl, you still need her.”

“I'm starting to wonder if it's worth it. Don’t take too much time, I need someone to pummel.”

You smirk. “Love you too.”

He disconnects.

***

From Prague you go straight to Yorkshire and then Cornwall and back to London afterwards, playing recruiting agent, hiring grunts, and setting the stage. The explosives are ready and the hostages picked out, and now it’s just a matter of giving the order.

You drop your duffel bag in the hallway and go to the living room. Jim is sitting at the table, head buried in his arms. For some reason there’s a pair of trainers sitting in front of him.

“I urgently need to kill someone,” he groans, sounding like he’s hungover.

“Okay,” you say carefully.

“Or seriously maim, at least. If I never need to say the words  _have you tried turning it off and on again_ it’ll be too soon.” He raises his head and gives you a bleary look. “Is everything in order?”

“All ready and waiting.”

“Good.” He drops his head back onto the table. “God, I'd forgotten how  _stupid_ ordinary people are.”

“I'm ordinary,” you point out. You pull up a chair and sit down opposite of him.

“No you're not. You're - ” He waves his hand. “Something else.”

“Careful, that sounded almost like a compliment.” You look back at the shoes. “So, erm...”

“Hm?”

“Why is there a pair of trainers on the table?”

“They're a souvenir,” he says without looking up.

“It thought you didn’t do souvenirs?”

“It seemed significant back then.” He shrugs. “I was young.”

His past again, best to leave it alone until he’s less stressed. You reach out and tip his chin up. He blinks rapidly. You can’t remember him ever being in disguise this long, and it’s obviously getting to him.

He leans back and runs his hands over his face. “They’ve got a purpose,” he mumbles. He drops his hand and takes your forearm. “I want you to leave them in Baker Street, the basement flat. And while you're there, have a look around in 221B, tell me what it looks like, take a few pictures. Nose around a bit.” His fingers tighten. “ _Don't_  be seen.”

“Understood.” You cock your head and give him a once-over. “When do you need to leave for the hospital?”

He looks at his watch, a much cheaper one than his usual. “Twenty minutes.”

“And you're going back like this?”

“Like what?” he snaps.

“Homicidal. You'll only end up caving someone's skull in with a stapler, you know.”

“Well, it's not like I can...” He trails off and looks at you. You raise your eyebrows.

The next second you’re flat on your back with Jim’s knee pressing down hard onto your breastbone. He yanks your shirt open and squeezes your throat. “Don't leave visible marks or I'll use your skin as a lampshade.”

“Noted.” You take a handful of shirt and pull him down.

***

Breaking into Baker Street turns out to be almost disappointingly easy. You were expecting high-tech alarm systems, but all there was was a run-of-the-mill lock and an old biddy asleep in the downstairs kitchen. In fact, the hardest part was navigating the insanely cluttered flat without disturbing anything.

It makes you appreciate Jim's borderline-obsessive neat streak all the more. At least he stores his mould samples in a different fridge from the one he keeps the food in.

“So, tell me, Seb. What did you  _see_?” he asks when you get back.

You toss him your phone. “He's got a cocaine stash hidden beneath the floorboards.”

“Really?” he says, flipping through the pictures. “How disappointingly predictable of him.”

Would Jim ever... The thought of James Moriarty on drugs is terrifying. On the other hand, you're already half convinced Jim secretes his own internal cocaine, so.

You sit down on the carpet at his feet and he puts a hand on your nape.

“Go on then. Tell me.” He drops the phone on the couch and closes his eyes, visualizing, as you describe everything from the body parts in the fridge to the kind of toothpaste in the bathroom. It was definitely a test of your memory, this one.

“Hah!" he barks.

“What?”

He cracks one eye open. “The good doctor didn't find the cocaine, did he? My dog's better than his,” he says, leering at you.

“To be fair, I do have years of experience of living with a psychopath. I'm sure he'll catch up eventually.”

“Or not,” he answers, eyes closing again.

“So when are you going to kill him?”

He doesn't answer and you look up at him. He looks... odd. It’s not an expression you’ve seen before.

“You  _are_ going to kill him, don’t you?” you ask suspiciously.

He shakes his head. “Don’t know yet. Maybe. We’ll see.”

“Right,” you say, carefully neutral. “So, what now?”

He stands up and puts his hands against the window, looking out. “Now?” he asks. “Now it all kicks off.” He looks over his shoulder and grins. “Curtains rise.”

***

The game, like a lot of Jim's games, starts with an explosion. 

You watch it on CCTV, making sure Holmes himself isn’t harmed. He comes running out 221B seconds after the bang, dressing gown flapping, in perfect health. But that’s probably the most exciting thing for a least a few days. There are even more go-betweens and smoke screens than usual, so instead of supervising in person you've got to do nothing but put a pager in a safe you're using as a dead drop and make the occasional phone call.

And keeping an eye on the victims. For all that Jim didn't want you involved, he insisted that it had to be you holding the sniper rifle. It means finding an abandoned office looking out on the car park in Cornwall, and then doing essentially nothing for twelve hours. Just keeping the laser light nicely on the woman's chest and not getting arrested in the process.

For all that Jim was hopping with excitement about this, it’s going to be boring as fuck for you.

***

The second one, luckily, is in London. You'd been hoping for a few hours of rest at home, but with all the organising going on you only have time for a quick shower and change on clothes before you're back in position in a new hide-out, rifle leaning against your shoulder. There’s nothing to do except lie around, wait for Holmes to answer, and the occasional phone call to the kidnapping team and your moles in the police, who are making sure the victim isn’t found until the right moment. Even Jim dropping by somewhere in the afternoon isn't enough to dispell your irritation. 

“I met him,” he says when he steps inside, voice skipping octaves.

“Yeah? Did he fall for it?” you ask, not looking up from your rifle.

“Without even a second of suspicion. So used to being the clever one, he is. Poor, lonely boy. I gave him my number. Wouldn’t it be fun if he called? He won’t, though, Jim-from-IT isn’t his type. He prefers the tough soldier boys, but I don’t think he knows that yet. Why aren’t you saying anything?”

“Because,” you say through your teeth, “you told me to keep an eye on the target at all times. And that you would break my kneecaps if I got distracted.”

“I changed my mind. Get up.”

You close your eyes and count to five. Then you jump up in one fluid movement and whirl on him. His eyes widen in excitement.

“Getting frustrated, Sebastian?”

“I have been literally motionless for four hours straight and if Sherlock fucking Holmes gets his answer right I won’t even get to shoot someone, and this is only the second of four. So yeah, frustrated  _might_ be a pretty accurate assessment of my current fucking mood.”

He puts his hand on your chest and backs you into the wall, other hand in his pocket. “Oh dear. Do you need to _vent_ , Seb?”

His hand slides down to your stomach and your breathing picks up in speed. “But I’m afraid you’ll have to wait,” he adds, “because our target’s trying to get away.”

“For  _fuck’s sake_.” You drop down and have the laser sight trained on the target’s chest in less than a second. The man sits down again.

“Well, I need to be off,” Jim says airily, “I said I’d meet Molly at six. Be good, darling.”

You glance up at him. “I’m going to pound you through the fucking mattress when we’re home.”

“Promises, promises,” he sings, leaving the room.

“ _I hope she dumps you_ ,” you shout after him.

***

By the third time things haven’t gotten any less boring, and when Holmes gets his answer right it’s a relief. Only one more day of surveillance to go, and then this whole sodding game is finished.

“Help me,” the woman croaks, and you move to switch off your headset, already tired of Sherlock Holmes' stuck-up voice.

“He was so... His voice,” she says, and you freeze. You can hear Holmes protesting.

There can be nothing that implicates Jim.  _Nothing_.

“He sounded so...” You reach for the rifle.

“...soft.”

You shoot.

***

He’s waiting for you in the flat when you get there, arms folded, expression ice cold. It’s the face that shows up whenever someone crosses him. It’s not one you see often, and never directed at you.

“He got it right, Sebastian,” Jim says, voice deadly. “Why did you shoot when he got it right?”

You drop the bag with the rifle and make an effort to keep your voice steady. “She went off script. She started  _describing_ you. What the hell was I supposed to do?’

He narrows his eyes but some of the tension in his body disappears. “You were supposed to be following orders.’

“You were at the hospital. What, you wanted me to call you and ask for your permission? In the middle of your shift? While she gave them enough information to identify you? I used my initiative.”

“Your  _what?”_ he snaps.

“That was why you wanted me there in the first place, wasn’t it? To step up if you were busy?” But as always when he loses it, you can feel yourself become calm and clear-headed. Like a see-saw, the two of you, going every which way but always in balance. “I did exactly what you told me,” you say, voice steady. “I  _always do_.”

It looks like it’s working. He closes his eyes and breathes in deeply through his nose. “You did, didn’t you?” he says softly. “Clever boy. But I wouldn’t make a habit out  _using your initiative_ , if I were you.”

“Alright?” you ask.

He opens his eyes and stares at you, chewing his lip. Then he nods and looks out of the window, and you relax.

“So what’s next?’ you ask.

He rubs at his forehead. “I’m going to let him work out this last one for himself. No contact until the last second, that should make you happy. And then, well...’ He grins. “If he gets this one right, I’d say he deserves a  _treat_.’

***

The last target turns out to be ten years old.

Not that it matters. Collateral damage is collateral damage, whether it’s old women or little boys, that’s the way of the world. And besides, you’ve seen enough dead kids not be squeamish about it. At least he would have got a clean death, which you can’t say about some of the victims you’ve come across, left behind like rubbish by enemy soldiers.

But, the kid does get saved in the end. You see it on the news, because by then you're long gone, back at the flat, arranging a team of snipers for tonight.

“You got them?” Jim asks. He's nervy again. He always is just before something big is about to happen, but it’s even worse than usual.

“Yes, six of them, good shots. But I still don't see why you need them.”

“Just in case.  _Nothing_  can go wrong tonight.”

“Nothing will,” you say reassuringly.

He stops and gives you a look. “Not if you do as I say.” He starts pacing again.

“So, Watson.” You focus your attention on the CCTV feed of Baker Street. “What happened to  _not letting me near this one_ , anyway?’

He frowns. “Because anyone else I could send might end up like that taxi driver. I need someone capable.’

“Why?”

“He's far more dangerous than he looks.” He pulls a drawer open and starts rifling through his ties. “Adrenaline junkie, incredibly stubborn, very good shot.” He smirks. “Sounds familiar?”

“At least I'm man enough to admit I'm your – ”

“Pet?” he suggests.

“I was going to say  _bitch_ , but pet works too.”

He pulls out a tie and walks over to the full length mirror. It's the Westwood one, with the skulls, the one you bought for him when he blew up your flat. It's a bit touching.

“Are you going to be alright?” you ask.

He stops tying his knot and raises his eyebrows at you.

_Careful._

You shrug. “You're being... you know. Twitchy.”

“I'm not the one you need to worry about.” He finishes the knot with one sharp pull. “Keep your ear piece in at all times, we might need to improvise. Are you ready?”

“As I'll ever be.”

He clips on his tie pin. “Get going then. Go catch the good doctor.”

***

It takes you straight back to your sniper days. Lying in wait, motionless and quiet, waiting for the mark to wander in your direction. Slightly more exciting than just keeping your rifle trained on an unmoving target, like you’ve done for the last few days, but only  _slightly_. 

“Are you  _sure_  he's going to go out tonight?’ you say over the headset. “Because I don't fancy breaking in again when they're both at home - ”

“Will you stop  _whining_? He'll leave, I'm sure of it.”

“I'm just saying that if – hold on.” The door of the Baker Street flat slams open and someone steps out, walking quickly but slightly irregularly.

“He's here.” You switch the headset off after that, you'll need all your concentration. You pull the hood of your jumper over your head - it’s dark enough not to need a more elaborate disguise - and get out of the van as silently as you can.

You follow him until he turns into a slightly darker alley and then you make your move.

“John Watson?”

He turns and you hit him as hard as you can right beneath his rib cage. It's hard enough to topple him onto the ground, but instead of staying down politely he kicks at your legs, sweeping your feet from under you. You almost end up on the ground yourself.

You stumble back up and turn, laughing, the fight singing in your blood. You love hand-to-hand, especially with someone who knows what he’s doing.

“Who are you? What do you want?” Watson snaps. You don't bother to answer but lunge again. He tries to dodge but you see through it, adjusting and getting a handful of coat to slam him against the wall. You force his arm behind his back and pull your gun from the waistband of your jeans, press the muzzle against his lower back. Watson goes still almost immediately.

“You can either play nice and cooperate,” you growl, making sure your voice is lower and accent is rougher than usual. “Or I can shoot you through the back of your knee and drag you to the van meself. You're a doctor, you know what a bullet does to all that tissue.”

“A gunshot? Here?” he snarls, starting to struggle against your hold. He's got  _bite_ , this one. No wonder Holmes took him in. “The police would arrive in seconds.”

“Yeah? You wanna bet the use of your knee?” He stops struggling again. “What's it gonna be, doctor? Will you play along?” You turn him around and point the gun at his knee. The streetlight behind you casts your face in shadow, giving him nothing to identify. He looks down, back at you, and then, with the most impressive fuck-you face you've ever seen, he nods.

“Right. Come along then.”

***

You wait to switch the headset back on until Watson is chained up and blindfolded in the back of the van.

“Got him,” you say. “Where do you want him?”

“Swimming pool. I'll send you directions.” Jim laughs. “God, I never would have thought... Seems like our Sherlock is the sentimental type.”

“I have no idea what you're talking about,” you say patiently.

He sighs. “I know, it doesn't matter. Make sure the doctor arrives in one piece, will you? You know what to do once you're there.”

“I do. See you there.”

***

When you pull Watson from the van he's still scowling from underneath the blindfold, brows drawn together in anger. You wonder if he kept it up all the way here or if he started it up again when he felt the van slow down. Probably the first, stubborn bastard.

“It's Moriarty, isn't it? The one who's behind all this?” he says.

You drag him to the changing rooms by the shoulder. What does he think you’re going to do, sit him down and patiently explain the master plan to him?

“Well, he's made a mistake,” he says. “Sherlock isn't that stupid, he'll know it's a trap. He won't come.”

Which is what you’ve been thinking as well. Holmes is supposed to be a genius, surely he must see the obvious? But Jim seemed convinced he’d risk it anyway.

You open the door to the changing room. Inside is another one of Jim's semtex anoraks and an earpiece. You take the earpiece and put it on him. “Do as he says,” you bark.

He obeys, mouth still a thin angry line – man's determined, you'll give him that – and Jim's voice sounds in your ear.

“He's my puppet now. Well done, Seb. Go get the other snipers and get to the roof.”

You should, but Watson... He’s  _interesting_ , and you’re insanely curious to know what Jim makes of him.

You switch channels and listen in. “- you don’t, if you want to be  _clever_ , I’ll blow Sherlock’s pretty brain out the second he steps through the door. So if you want to save your friend,  _doctor_ , I suggest you do exactly as I tell you to. I know you’re listening, dear, get going.”

You switch back with a smile, but before you leave you look back at Watson. The line of his shoulders, the stiff movements... It’s pure unadulterated fury, and you feel a first niggle of doubt.

But Jim knows what he's doing. He always does.

***

Holmes walks in at midnight, grandstanding almost as well as Jim does. You block out most of the conversation and focus instead on the body language. Holmes, controlled and watchful; Watson, stiff and clearly terrified. He’s a soldier after all, he knows the damage bombs can do. He’s doing an admirable job of controlling his fear, though. And then there’s Jim, having the time of his life, bending his voice every which way and accent switching every sentence.

He tosses something into the pool - melodramatic bastard - and laughs. And then suddenly Watson lunges and he’s got Jim in a choke hold and you lose your shot.

You try to shift, get a clear line, but Watson knows what he’s doing and you can’t guarantee you won’t hit Jim, and -

Other snipers,  _god_ you can be stupid.

“Someone draw a fucking bead on Holmes,  _now_ ,” you bark down the radio. The sniper opposite of you sights on Holmes and Watson lets go immediately. You take aim again.

Good thing Jim is so fucking paranoid. What is it they say, it isn’t paranoia if they’re really are all out to get you? Or when your opponents are scarily smart geniuses with self-sacrificing lackeys. Although Holmes hadn’t moved a muscle when Watson shouted at him to run. And Watson hadn’t hesitated for a second when he saw his chance.

Interesting.

You can see Jim look up at you for a fraction of a second.

When he finally disappears the other snipers start to get up, but there have been no orders and you know Jim well enough by now, so you order them back.

“What – ” one of them starts to say, and then Jim's voice crackles over the headset.

“I've decided after all,” he says cheerfully. “Kill 'em. But let me talk first.”

“You heard the man,” you snap at the others, and train your rifle on Watson.

What you really want to do is shoot them both right now, fuck Jim's evil mastermind bullshit. They’re  _dangerous_ , both of them, you’re smart enough to see that. But you’re also not stupid enough to risk direct insubordination.

“Then probably my answer has crossed yours,” Holmes says, and there’s something about the way he says those words and you can kill him in a heartbeat but Jim said no and -

Holmes lowers the gun.

Shit fuck  _shit._  There's no way of predicting if you can take him out before he can pull the trigger, and if that thing explodes it will take Jim with it.

And Jim gets  _weird_  when he's in life-or-death situations, like it's something so wonderful he can't help but stop and stare. No use counting on him to defuse the situation,  _literally_.

He cracks his neck, not looking away, and even though you're too far to see him well you know the expression on his face. He's not going to give you any orders, you’re on your own here.

One breath, two, hold on the third, listen to your heartbeat – your finger tenses –

And his fucking phone starts ringing.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Next chapter Seb gets acquainted with everyone's favourite dominatrix. (It's another big one, so I'm going to try for Wednesday but there might again be a few days delay.)
> 
>  **Sebastian Augustus Horace** : I was convinced this was canon, but I couldn't find the source. Apologies to whoever I stole this from!
> 
>  **Saint Sebastian** : Ah, Saint Sebastian, the sexiest of saints. Martyred by being tied to a tree and pierced with arrows, which for some reason has inspired countless of painters (I dare you to find you one painting of St Sebastian without slight homo-erotic overtones). He's the patron saint of soldiers and archers, among other things, which seems appropriate for a sniper. But because of said sexiness he's also the unofficial patron saint of gay men. Up to you to which Moriarty was referring.
> 
>  **Have you tried turning it off and on again:** Credit goes entirely to the person who had the brilliant idea to combine Sherlock with the IT Crowd and gave us [ this brilliant gif ](http://yunuen.tumblr.com/post/16131682241/have-you-tried-turning-it-off-and-on-again-jim).


	8. The Woman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which A Sadistic Manipulative Bitch Squares Off Against A Sadistic Manipulative Bastard – And Seb Gets Caught In The Middle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter owes a lot to the wonderful eldritch-horrors, who was kind enough to read Irene's big scene and who gave some very welcome advice.
> 
> warnings: classism, dubious consent, explicit m/m sex, BDSM, implied murder/suicide

**8\. The Woman**

_You're a very sexy girl_   
_That's very hard to please_   
_You can taste the bright lights_   
_But you won't get them for free_   
_(Guns 'n Roses – Welcome To The Jungle)_

 

The fallout from Sherlock Holmes is extreme, even by Jim's standards. He spends days sulking in the bedroom, curtains closed, only creeping out occasionally to search for food. The one time you try to get him out he throws a knife at you, and you’re not even entirely sure if he  _meant_ to miss. Either way, the message is clear.

Jim might be brooding but business is still business and you spend a lot of time emailing or on the phone, convincing people that their cases are still taken seriously, even if that's strictly speaking a lie. And apart from the work there's the police inquest into the whole pool thing, which is laughably ineffective even without the interference of your moles, but it's still something extra to keep track of.

After five days you've had enough and you stride into his room and yank the curtains open, death threats be damned. Jim glares at you in the sudden sunlight but at least he isn't throwing things.

And you’ve got a  _plan_.

“The world doesn't stop turning just because you're throwing a hissy fit,” you sneer.

“It should,” Jim grumbles, covering his eyes with his hand.

“What are you, a teenaged girl?”

“Careful, Sebastian,” he says, peeking from between his fingers, the first sign of anything other than apathy. Just one more little push...

You raise your eyebrows. “Should I be? 'Cause you're not much of threat like this, if you ask me.”

For one whole second his face simply freezes up, and then he vaults off the bed and tackles you to the ground - you always forget how damn  _quick_  he can be when he wants to. He closes his hand around your throat, fingers digging in on either side of your windpipe, and leans close.

“Really?” he whispers. “You think I'm  _ever_  not dangerous?”

“And there you are,” you say smugly. Sometimes he really is a little predictable.

He stares at you for a few seconds and then he grins, quick as lightning. “Playing with fire, Sebastian.”

“Don't I know it.” You push at him and he rolls off. “Work to do, Jim, if you're up for it.”

“Yes, yes, I know. Never a moment of peace.” He stands up and stretches, yawning, his dark mood seemingly left behind.

“As if you would know what to do with peace,” you say. “You  _thrive_  on chaos.”

“Don't I just?” He drops his arms and turns to you. “Go on, Seb.” He smiles. “Tell me what's been happening in the world.”

***

The elections are always a busy period for Jim. You’ve known from a very early age that  _politics_  means nepotism and money grabbing and character assassinations, but the sheer extent of all the dodgy dealing is impressive, to say the least. And everyone who can afford it comes to Jim.

“You ownabout half of the British Government,” you say, flipping through his files. There’s a lot of names there you recognise, some even first-hand.

“Only the part that gets elected. It’s the civil servants that are interesting, they’ve got the real power. But yes, I’m owed quite a lot of favours in Whitehall.”

“Oh,” you say when you spot another familiar name. “So that  _was_ you. I did wonder how that floppy-haired twat got elected.”

He smiles, reminiscing. “Yes, that was quite funny.”

But the funniest part is that each and every one of those politicians think they’ve got the exclusive right on Moriarty. And Jim enjoys playing them against each other, pushing them around like they’re nothing but pawns on his playing board.

“Bang,” he says softly, miming a gun at his laptop screen, and another reputation goes down the drain. Everyone’s got their dirty little secret, after all.

His phone rings. He gives the screen an annoyed look and tosses it at you. “Deal with this, will you?”

You catch and answer. “Hello?”

“Sir,” someone says briskly. “We've got a spy.”

“Right. Hold on.” You put the phone against your shoulder and squeeze Jim's shoulder. “Who is this exactly?” you ask him.

“Newcastle,” he says absently. “Crime ring. Quite good.”

You raise the phone. “Don't tell me this is the first time you've had a mole?”

“No sir. We interrogated him, as per instructions, but...”

“What is it?”

“He... He knew the name, sir. Moriarty. He knew.”

Fuck. “Still alive?”

“Mostly. Shall I...”

“No, not yet. Have you found out who he works for?”

“Government. He found a trail, fuck knows how, and followed it to us.” The man on the other end still sounds brisk, but you can hear the fear beneath it. Sensible, fuck-ups are never tolerated.

“Keep him alive, I'll come over and deal with him myself.”

“Yessir.”

Jim gives you a look. You shake your head. “And... Jackson, isn't it? Don't even  _think_ about running.”

You can hear his breath shaking. “No sir.”

“Good.” You end the call.

“Planning a trip?” Jim asks, frowning.

You throw the phone back and he catches it neatly. ”A government spy has been snooping around, knew your name. Could be serious.”

He shrugs, unconcerned. “I was expecting something like this.”

“Were you?”

“Of course. That little stand-off at the pool was a bit too public to go unnoticed.”

“Right." You frown at him. It leaves you a little uneasy, the thought of someone coming close, but Jim seems unconcerned. "Well, unless you've got any objections I'm going to go over there and get the whole story out of the bastard. Alright?”

“And leave me here with all this work?” he asks innocently.

“At least you won't be bored.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” He puts his pile of folders carefully on the table. “It’s not  _all_ interesting. And what shall I do with my frustrations while you’re away, hm?”

“Keep ‘em bottled up and save them for when I’m back, I imagine.”

He tilts his head and gives you a slow smile. “Then I wouldn’t stay away too long, if I was you.”

“Right. I’ll, erm...” You swallow. “I’ll go and pack a bag, then, shall I?”

“Yes, do,” he says, still with that same intense look in his eyes. He sends you off to the bedroom with a slap on your arse, and you growl at him in response.

Seems the sudden influx of extra work hasn’t dulled his edge.

***

The spy turns out to be a bottom-feeder, coming across the crime ring more by chance than anything else. But when you pull apart his trail, his boss, his boss’ boss and so forth, you eventually arrive at Mycroft Holmes. It’s still too distant to be any serious threat, though. Jim sends a warning to all his side-projects, urging everyone to keep on their toes, and that’s that.

Once the elections are over - a hung parliament, who’d have thought it - the work eases up a bit, and a couple of days later you come home to find Jim sitting on the sofa with his computer on his lap.

You glance at his screen when you walk past, more out of habit than anything else, so it takes a few seconds before the image registers. When it  _does_ , you double back and lean on the back of the sofa, watching over his shoulder.

His screen is currently showing a semi-artistic black and white photograph of a riding crop, resting seductively on a pale shapely shoulder.

“Interesting job, is it?” you ask lightly. “Or is this for personal use?”

He doesn't reply. You turn your attention back to screen, which now shows a wicked red smile beneath a gold Venetian style mask.  _The Woman_ , the header says, which is either painfully unoriginal or impressively presumptuous. Judging by that smile, you'd say the latter.

“Who is she?” you ask, less flippant this time. No joking when he’s grumpy.

“Irene Adler. Potential client,” he says, sounding distracted. “The one who called me at the pool.”

“Well, whoever she is, she's got guts.” You get up and go to the kitchen to get a beer. Your hands are mostly healed from that fight you had last week, which is convenient;  there’s an undercover thing planned in a few days at a major oil corporation, and people always look a little funny at a businessman with bruised knuckles. You still need to get your suit to the dry cleaner, though, if they’re -

You stop, bottle halfway to your mouth. Jim’s leaning against the window, staring at you with something more than his usual focus.

“What?” you ask, a little surprised. You know that look, it’s the one he gives you when he isn’t entirely sure how you’ll react. Needless to say, it doesn’t show up very often.

“You're going to pay Irene Adler a visit.”

“Fine.” Doesn’t justify the attention. He hardly expects you be thrown off by a prostitute, does he? Even one with a whip. You take a sip from your bottle.

“Undercover,” he adds.

You choke on your beer in a painful coughing fit. Jim's eyes gleam with amusement.

“Undercover? Like a - ”

“I believe the word you're looking for,” he says lazily, “is  _sub_.”

“You are not my fucking pimp,” you snap.

He raises his eyebrows and amusement turns into something darker. “You're not going to be difficult over this, are you?”

“I – Look, you really want me to go over there and, and... and act like one of those  _pathetic_  fucking accountants whose idea of excitement is spending lunch hour getting spanked with a bidding paddle?”

“Pot, kettle, dear.”

You slam the bottle down on the counter. “I am  _nothing_  like them.”

“I didn't hear you complaining last night,” he says, with a pointed look at the bruises on your wrists, as if that’s got anything to do with this, as if he -

“That's different and you fucking know it,” you growl.

“Is it?” He cocks his head, as if he's genuinely surprised.

“Yes, ‘cause it’s - ‘cause that's  _you_.”

“Cause it's me,” he echoes softly.

And then, like flipping a switch, his pensive mood ends and he starts pacing. “Well, I'd suggest you get in touch with your inner submissive,  _darling_ , because I need background on that woman and she knows how to hide.”

“Send someone else.”

“No. She's clever, I don't know exactly  _how_ clever, but certainly clever enough to see through anyone else I could send.” He shoots you an irritated look. “Do you seriously think I'd expose you unless I absolutely had to?”

That’s new. He has sent you to pretty much everyone over the last few years, and he never really seemed worried about it. The only exception were people who were tied to your past in some way - old classmates, ex-soldiers you served with- but you’d be really surprised if it turns out Irene Adler is someone you knew personally. Of course, when it comes to sex... Well, his possessiveness has eased up a little over the years but he still isn't exactly the sharing type.

“And if she’s as good as you think she is, why wouldn’t she be able to see through me?” you ask.

“Because it’s  _you_ ,” he says, parroting your own words back at you with an ugly sneer. He runs his hand over his face and stops pacing, eyes on London’s skyline. “Because you’re used to dealing with someone more clever than you.”

“Only I don’t hide things from you,” you point out.

He looks over his shoulder. “I should hope not,” he says, more as a joke than anything else. “But you’re still the only man for the job. I’ll talk you through it. It’s the only option.”

“You could always go yourself,” you say, and then you actually  _think_ about what you suggested and have a vivid image of Jim, gagged and cuffed on his knees in front of some anonymous woman, and your mind goes fucking  _blank_.

“Sebastian.”

You blink. “Right, sorry, erm. I was just – ”

The corner of his mouth quirks up. “I don’t need to tell you that that’s not going to happen,” he says, but the irritation seems to have mostly disappeared.

“Alright. What do you need me to do?”

***

Irene Adler's personal palace of pain is a townhouse in Belgravia, because of course the Woman is ridiculously high-class. And should be, for the money she charges: her prices made even you blink and you’re at home with obscene wealth.

And the kind of people who can afford that obviously fit in well in this neighbourhood. It’s not like they come to her door in their gimp suits and collars, after all. No, they’re the wealthy elite, which means high fashion and bespoke suits hiding the lash marks and rope burns, nothing showing on the outside. It stinks of hypocrisy, but that doesn’t exactly surprise you.

You know exactly what goes on behind closed doors.

You ring the bell and bounce on your heels. You don’t know that much about Adler. Jim researched her with his usual thoroughness but he refused to share anything, said he wanted your  _unbiased opinion_. But it means going in blind.

And there isn't much of a cover story to hide behind either. Who would believe you to be an accountant after seeing your scars, your muscles? So today you're a discharged soldier with a fancy upbringing, tired of your peaceful civilian life and looking for thrills. It's who you would be if you had never met Jim, and it hits a little closer to home than you're comfortable with. Jim noticed it too and made you rehearse your lines over and over again, just to ensure you wouldn’t slip up.

_Stephen Anders, thirty-four, pleasure to meet you, Miss. Might I offer you my arse for a good spanking?_

It’s ridiculous.

The door is opened by a pretty redhead in a haute-couture version of a maid’s uniform. She gives you a professional smile. “Mr Anders? Please come in.”

She ushers you in and you step into a spacious hallway. The walls are beige and wood, the furniture sparse but tasteful. It's the sort of decorating you remember from your youth, the embassies and stately homes. Miss Adler has taste as well as guts.

The secretary escorts you up the stairs to a room that looks like a high class version of a GP's waiting room, minus the magazines. And no windows, because god forbid anyone outside would see who’s inside. You sit down heavily in one of the comfy stuffed chairs and give the girl an expectant look.

“Miss Adler will be ready for you in a moment,” she says. There’s something mocking in her smile, her eyes - probably similar to how you look when you escort clients to Jim. “Would you like to review your questionnaire?” she adds.

“No, it's fine.”

The questionnaire. Jesus, Jim had fun with that. It was twelve pages long in tiny print, with neat little boxes to tick. You're not a prude by anyone's standards but more than once you had to swallow, and occasionally consult google, before decisively ticking the  _hard limit_  box.

The problem is that you suspect the list has given Jim  _ideas_.

“Then there's just the matter of aftercare,” the redhead says delicately.

You look up. “What about it?”

“Some of our clients prefer me to take care of it.”

“Miss Adler doesn't like giving aftercare?”

“Actually she prefers doing it herself, but some people think it breaks the illusion.”

Crucial information, that. You know you're at your weakest, no competition, just after Jim gets a little aggressive with you. So aftercare, with the clients blissed out and still high on the rush, would be an ideal opportunity to dig for information. Who’s got the energy to censor himself when he still feels the aftertaste of the whip on his back?

And Adler apparently trusts the girl enough to take over interrogation duties when the clients are smart enough to sense danger. More than just a  _secretary_ , that much is clear.

“Mr Anders?” the assistant prompts gently.

“Oh, right. I'd prefer to let Miss Adler take care of it, actually.”

She smiles. “I’ll let her know. If you'll just wait here, it'll be a few minutes.”

You nod and she leaves, skirt swaying. She sounded a bit…  _fond_ as well. Maybe Jim isn't the only one to have an emotionally-invested second in command. It would explain the trust.

You lean back in your chair and look around the room, jiggling your foot. Being nervous fits the cover, but, well, it isn’t just an act. You never did anything beyond the occasional bit of improvised bondage before you met Jim, but Jim is  _Jim_. The thought of going in there and giving control to a complete stranger is unsettling, even if it’s just for a job, even if you are undercover.

You stand up again, run your hand idly over the white-washed walls. It’s going to be difficult, keeping a clear head while still projecting all the things that are expected of you. You might be a decent actor but there are some things you can’t fake. Apprehension. Excitement.

Arousal.

The secretary pops her head back into the room. “She's ready now. The door at the back of the hallway.”

“Right.” You put your hands in your pockets, pull them out again, jittery with nerves.

She gives you another smile. Yes, definitely laughing at you. “No need to be nervous. She'll take good care of you.”

She leaves again. You wait until her footsteps have completely faded, and only then you go down the hallway to the door at the end, dragging your feet. You pause in front of the door.

It takes you back, this, to standing outside your father’s study or the headmaster’s room or the Colonel’s quarters, waiting to be reprimanded. You were a lot less nervous then than you are now. There are  _no words_  for how much you don’t want to be here.

You take a deep steadying breath and open the door.

***

No dungeons and torches, no racks, no whips and chains hanging from the wall. Just grey-and-white wallpaper, an elegant bed, a dressing table, all very stylish. You take a step further inside. The entire room smells very…  _feminine_ , soft powdery smells, vanilla, something musky. Not the kind of scent you would associate with hardcore bondage, but then again Adler seems to be somewhat atypical. Speaking of, where is the -

“Take off your jacket, shirt, belt and shoes.  _Don't_  look around,” she adds when you start to turn in surprise. Behind you, slightly to the left, she must have been waiting just next to the door.

You take your jacket off, folding it neatly out of habit, and start unbuttoning your shirt. She doesn't say anything else, but the back of your neck is prickling. Is she expecting you to get embarrassed by this? If so, she's barking up the wrong tree.

“Not bad,” she drawls when you pull your shirt off. "Quite the eye-candy, aren't you?" 

You smile. She's got an amazing voice, low and smooth. The accent, cultured and languid, reminds you of your grandmother, which isn't exactly an aphrodisiac. But years of living with Jim have given you something of an ear for accents and there's something about the consonants that makes you think it's learned, rather than natural. Something to remember.

There’s a slight rustle of cloth and her heels click softly on the wooden floor. You bend your leg and try to pull your shoe off, but, well, there is no dignified way to do that while standing up. It's another position of vulnerability she forces you to assume, and it's probably no coincidence she chooses the moment when you’re hopping around awkwardly to step into your field of view.

You straighten up and give her a slow, thorough onceover.

The pictures on her website don't do her justice. True, the smile is the same, the long fingers, the hourglass figure, and she's even a bit shorter than you expected, but images fail to capture the air of control she exudes. It reminds you of Jim, and alright, that  _is_  an aphrodisiac. And even if it weren't for that, she's still a gorgeous woman in lacy lingerie and stilettos, it's only normal you're reacting.

“Like what you see, do you?” she says, obviously amused.

“Very much so.”

She holds your gaze, smiling, but doesn’t reply. And she keeps holding it until you clear your throat and look away. There, dominance established. That should make her happy.

“Very neat," she says.

You look back at her. “Sorry?”

She nods at your neatly folded clothes, still with the same amused smile. “Let me guess. Military? Or boarding school?”

“Both, actually.”

She starts circling you, and again you have to fight the impulse to pivot and keep her in your line of sight. “Hence the scars. Although...” One of her nails traces the faded lines between your shoulder blades. “I doubt very much this is a battle scar.”

You make a fist, bury your nails in your palm, using the pain as a counterpoint for the touch.

“That was a question,” she says, something sharper in her tone. What was it that Jim called it? Your inner submissive? Well, he definitely just sat up with interest.

“Call it a battle of a different nature.”

“Well said,” she says from behind your shoulder. Not looking around goes against your every instinct. Does she know that? Or is it just a fluke? Probably she knows, it’s a basic thing after all, not turning your back on the predator. Even if the predator in question is wearing heels and lipstick.

She stops in front of you and you look down at her. She's about a head shorter than you, even in those heels, but somehow she manages to work the height difference to her advantage. Or maybe you simply have a lot of experience submitting to people shorter than you.

“This is your first time, isn't it?” She cocks her head. “So I'll explain the rules this once, but don't expect to make me repeat myself. Understood?”

You nod.

“First rule: you don't speak unless spoken to. So, am I making myself clear?”

“Yes,” you reply obediently, even though you suspect what's coming now.

“And you'll address me as Miss Adler, or Mistress. Yes who?”

“Yes, Miss Adler.” You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing, because more than anything this reminds you of Eton and being a rebellious eleven-year old.

“As for safewords, we'll keep it simple. Red for  _stop_ , yellow for  _wait_ , green for  _go_. Clear?”

Rolling your eyes would  _not_  be a good idea. “Yes, Miss Adler.”

“And when I order you to do something, I expect you to obey immediately. Got it?”

“ _Yes_ , Miss Adler,” and it comes out sounding slightly like a schoolboy’s chant.

“Good boy.” She tilts her head and looks you up and down. “Parade rest,” she says with a mocking little smile. “Old habits die hard, I suppose? Although…” She puts her knuckles underneath your chin and tips your head up a little, correcting your posture. It’s all you can do to keep from swatting her off.

“If only your commanding officers could see you now, hm?” she says. Her hand falls onto your upper arm and she steps to your side, and her fingers drag over your shoulder and neck, like you're a piece of meat to be prodded and assessed. The urge to throw her off is getting stronger by the second, and combined with her disappearing out of your line of sight again…

She lets go and walks off, giving you time to think.

What would Stephen Anders do? Being prickly is fine, probably, but you shouldn’t let it come too far – the man is supposed to be desperate for this, after all. So you can’t push back as much as you’d normally do. Bow your head and take what you’re given. Well, it can’t be that hard, can it?

A sliding noise like a drawer opening, a clink – metal? – and general rummaging about, and then her footsteps again. She puts her hands lightly on your shoulders and you can’t contain a slight twitch in response.

She laughs again. “Skittish, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Miss Adler,” you say obediently, because Stephen Anders is obviously a bit of closet-doormat. Although that twitch was actually your own reaction, not a fake. You need to be careful here.

She runs her palms slowly down your arms until she reaches your wrists, thumbs pressing into your tendons. She doesn’t do anything, though, just holds them. You tense up in anticipation.

And then her grip tightens and she yanks your arms back, crossing your wrists. Your breath catches. “Keep them like that,” she says calmly, and lets go.

No prizes for guessing what’s next, although you’d been hoping she’d leave it off for a bit longer. Being polite and obedient is all good and well but restraints are still  _restraints_ , and no matter how often you’ve been tied up it still messes with you.

“I was expecting a _yes Miss Adler_ to that, incidentally,” she adds.

“Yes, Miss Adler,” you say, trying not to roll your eyes. “Sorry, Miss Adler.”

“Don’t forget it next time.” She takes your wrist again and closes something surprisingly soft around it. Lined cuffs? Makes sense, no risk of damage.

She closes the other cuff and you pull your wrists apart. You’ve got a couple of inches manoeuvring room, although the chain tinkles when you move – alerting her when you’re starting to fidget, clever.

She gives your forearms a squeeze. “There,” she says softly. “Isn’t that  _better_?”

You bite back a sharp reply. It’s getting bloody annoying, this no-talking rule. It’s not something you’re used to: if Jim wants you to shut up, he gags you, simple as that. Not that he does that a lot, he likes it when you talk back, but talking back  _here_ would probably get you the adult equivalent of a stint on the naughty step.

She lets go and comes to stand in front of you again. Her fingers drift down over your chest, to the waistband of your trousers, and even lower. You twitch again as she lightly strokes the by now obvious bulge in your trousers, the combined effect of her appearance and the restraints - after all, three years of being with Jim have firmly entrenched a  _being tied up equals sex_ -rule in your hindbrain. It’s one of those things you can’t fake, and it’s probably a bit too soon for Stephen Anders to get that excited. Can’t be helped, unfortunately.

“Already?” she says, laughter in her voice. “That was quick.”

You pull a sheepish, embarrassed face. That one at least is one hundred percent fake: sex is something you never have been and never will be ashamed of.

She cocks her head and looks you up and down again. "What to do with you, hm?" She drags one fingernail down your breastbone, smiling as goosebumps form.

“Whatever you want, Miss Adler,” you say sweetly.

Her eyes cut to yours and she smirks, as if she realises exactly how little you meant that. She strokes your stomach – your muscles tighten involuntarily - and gives the waistband of your trousers a little tug. “Well, we can start here. Take these off.”

You give your cuffs a pointed shake, but she just raises an eyebrow, expecting.

This is going to be tricky. You have lots of experience getting out of restraints, and these are hardly a challenge, but good old Steve doesn't have that experience. So that's out.

You move your arms up and try to pull at the belt loops at your back. Damn Jim and his sodding tailor, if you had worn normal clothes the trousers would have at least some manoeuvring room.  But it doesn’t give an inch, even after a bit of awkward wriggling about, and Adler watching you with ill-disguised impatience isn't really helping - 

Wait.

You're supposed to fail. That’s the point, isn’t it, punishment? And she needs a failure to punish you  _for_. Well, you can do that, at least.

You make a show of pitiful struggling, frowning determinately. And indeed, after a few minutes she obviously has enough, rolling her eyes and sighing, the very picture of exasperation. It's an impressive performance.

“You can stop that,” she snaps. She pulls your arm down again and walks straight past you, out of sight again, heels clacking. Handy, that, you can hear exactly where she is. At least one fucking reassurance she’s allowing you.

You close your eyes and take the time to run through what you’ve got so far. Talented actress. Astute cold-reader. Quite likely shagging her assistant.  _Clever_ , but you knew that one already. And pretty damn hot, although that’s probably not the kind of information Jim is after.

A cupboard door closes behind you with a loud bang. You look automatically over your shoulder.

“Eyes  _front_.”

Your head snaps back. You blink. Bloody  _hell_ she’s good, even your drill sergeant never got you to obey quite that quickly.

“If you can't even manage to get undressed on your own,” she says, closer now, “then why should I even bother with you?”

“Was that a rhetorical question, Miss Adler?”

She laughs, and then something cracks hard across your back. You stumble forward in surprise. Multiple striking points – a flogger or something? Whatever it is, it _hurts_.

“I didn’t – ”

“Shut up,” she says calmly. She takes your shoulder, pushes down and nudges her foot against the back of your knee. You take the hint and kneel down on the wooden floor.

“Do you forget so easily?” She looks down at you, the – flogger, as it turns out, looks like it’s made from some kind of soft leather – swishing idly next to her thigh. “What’s the first rule?”

“Don’t speak until you’re spoken to. Although,” you sneer at her, “you  _did_ ask me a question. Miss A-”

She slaps your cheek, hard enough to snap your head around. You glare back at her in fury.

“You think I would tolerate your impertinence?” she asks. She’s smiling. Not angry, like you were expecting, just smiling, like you’re a fucking joke, just a little –

Fuck. The role. You just –  _forgot_ about that, got lost in the challenge. Change of plans then, ‘cause you can’t keep up the acting and be observant at the same time. As long as you don’t start giving away personal details you can show your own reactions without jeopardising anything, right?

She notices something, though. She narrows her eyes a little and takes your chin, forcing you to look up at her. Once again she reminds you of Jim, the same focused attention, the same damn  _control_.

“Oh, hello,” she says softly. “Woke up, did you?”

“Yes, Miss Adler,” you say, pouring as much disdain and mockery into those three little words as you can.

She chuckles. “You think I haven’t seen your kind before?”

"I _highly_ doubt that."

"Yes, because you're _special_ , aren't you? The rules don't apply to you, is that it?" Her thumb brushes your mouth and this time you give in and pull your head from her grasp.

“I obeyed your fu-  your  _rules_ , didn’t I?”

She smiles again. “You’re perfectly aware of the difference between respecting the letter and the spirit of the law. And I expect nothing less than complete obedience.”

_Your complete, unquestioning obedience_

You blink the memory away. “You should’ve been more specific, then.”

“And there you go again. You just can’t resist pushing, can you?” She fists her hand in your hair and yanks your head back. “Transgressions have consequences,” she says sweetly, tone completely at odds with her painful grip. “You’re going to count.” She lets go with a little shove at your neck and you bow your head, square your shoulders, prepare for the pain.

It doesn’t come. The flogger hits your shoulders but it barely even stings. Is she testing you? “One,” you say, sounding slightly surprised.

She laughs. “I suppose you think you can take more?” The next hit falls a little harder, but it’s still  _nothing_  compared to what you’re used to. You could tell her,  _no need to go easy love, I’ve had my back practically flayed before_.

“Two,” you say obediently.

“Big tough soldier like you.” Another hit, and it doesn’t hurt, not exactly, but it’s like it’s sending a wake-up call to your nerve endings. Warm-up. It’s bloody frustrating, you’d much rather she just got on with the heavier stuff.

“Three.”

 _It isn’t about the pain_ , Jim said.  _Or even the humiliation. It’s about control, which she has and you haven’t._

The next hit catches you unaware. She changed the angle or the speed or something, but either way it fucking  _stings_ and you can’t keep in a small noise.

“Well?” she says.

“Fi- er, no, four, sorry.”

“Slipping up already?” Number five falls lightly over your other shoulder. “Oh, come on, that was almost  _easy_.”

“Five,” you say between gritted teeth.

She gradually ups the intensity, and by stroke number fifteen it hurts enough to mess with your concentration, but not enough to – well, you’re used to more intense things, that’s all. You try to distract yourself, look around, store away more details.

“Sixteen.” Her shoes. Red soles, you caught a glimpse of them earlier, those are expensive, aren’t they? and –

_thwack_

“Seventeen.” Wooden floor, not easy to clean and yet it’s shiny and spotless. No traces of the previous customers’ blood or sweat –

_thwack_

“Eight - eighteen.” Changing spots every time, keeping it from getting predictable, and it’s distracting as hell.

_thwack_

“Nineteen.” You close your eyes, bite your lip.

_What do you see, Sebastian?_

_thwack_

“Twenty,” you growl, and you want nothing more than turn around and yell  _get on with it_.

Which of course means she does the opposite, stopping altogether. A few clicks of her heels and she’s back in front of you, her red-tipped fingers right in your line of vision. She flips the flogger around and tips your chin up with the handle.

You have successfully stared down mob bosses and army Generals and High Court judges and, once or twice, even Jim Moriarty himself. But Adler only taps your cheekbone, as if she finds your furious glare endearing.

“Well?” she says pointedly.

You shove your pride and anger down and say, like a perfect little penitent schoolboy, “I apologise for speaking out of turn and being disrespectful, Miss Adler.”

“Very well. Stand up.”

You get up again with a little wince – the hard wood of the floor isn’t very forgiving on your knees.

“And those?” She raises her eyebrow at your trousers.

“Would you be so kind as to give me a hand, Miss Adler?” And if you sound a little sarcastic, well, some things just can’t be helped.

“And why should I do that?”

“Because, Miss Adler, I can’t manage it on my own.”  _Because you tied my hands behind my back, you condescending bitch_ , you don’t say. You can play along, if that’s what it takes.

She puts her hand on your breastbone and draws it down. It’s a light, casual touch, like all those before, and it should be easy enough to ignore but it has this edge of possessiveness that’s setting your teeth on edge.

“Poor, helpless boy,” she says, with a cruel smile. You resist the urge to sneer.

She opens the button of your trousers, pulls the zip down, and steps back again. You hook your thumbs in your waistband and with a bit of wriggling you eventually get them off. They fall around your ankles and you step out of them, leaving you naked apart from your underpants.

The skin on your back is tingling.

She looks you up and down again, starting at your feet, lingering at crotch-level, and finally meeting your eye. You raise your chin and glare at her, in silence.

“Keep still, now,” she says, and then she’s gone again, going to wherever she keeps her toys. You try to focus on your breathing, the _now_ , rather than thinking about all the things that are still coming. All those neat little boxes on that fucking list…

She comes back. The sleeve of her lacy negligée brushes against your arm, but again she stays out of your field of vision. God, if only you could _look around_ for just a second, see what she’s holding…

Something brushes down your back and you almost yelp. Adler chuckles darkly and does it again - a feather? Something sharp scratches down, a sharp stab of pain, and then she uses the feather-thing again, and the contrast between the slight pain and the teasing gentleness of it is  _maddening_. And you don’t have any experience with it. It's something Jim hardly ever bothers with, this subtle light sort of thing. He's always just this side of too much – crosses that line often, too – but this is a whole different kind of torture.

Come on, no giving in. Good actress. Shagging the maid. Fake accent. Good, very good, fantastically demonically good -

She trails the feather up your back, around your shoulder, over your throat.  You’re breathing hard, getting a noseful of that fucking vanilla-and-musk with every inhale. You’re shaking as well, a light nervous tremble that for some reason you can’t stop, and your knees feel weak and your wrists are starting to hurt from pulling against the cuffs and even your fucking  _sight_  feels off, too focused and sharp. Reduced to a nervous wreck by nothing more than a soft flogger and a fucking _feather_ , while she is still as composed and aloof as before.

Come _on_ , are you beaten that easily? What would Jim say if he could see you now? Laugh his arse off, probably, or be quietly furious, the way he gets sometimes. He certainly wouldn't be pleased. And the thought of disappointing him...

It takes an enormous effort, but you manage to get your breathing back under control, find a bit of focus again.

Alder puts the feather away and takes your jaw, pulls your face down, inspecting you. “Doing long division in your head?” She smiles. “I thought you said you hadn't done this before?”

You open your mouth, but this time you remember just in time to close it again.

Her smile widens. “Learning, are we? Go on then, you’ve got my permission to answer.”

“Not with a professional,” you say, which is technically the truth.

She runs her thumb over your bottom lip. “Have anything else to say?”

Did she catch your lie, is she waiting for a confession? Or is she - oh. Right. Safewords. You are here supposedly of your own will, after all. “No, Miss Adler.”

She hums. The intensity of her stare is getting on your nerves, but somehow looking away would only make things worse right now. You can do nothing but let her examine you, her fingers digging into your cheeks.

“I know what you want,” she says softly. “I can see it in your eyes.” She leans closer, lips next to your ear, and from this close the scent of her is overpowering, intoxicating. “ _I need to be hurt_ ,” she whispers.

You sway forward a little, drawn in. Her thumb strokes your jaw and she leans back. “But you can’t quite get it out, can you?” Her fingers brush over your cheek. “Not  _yet_ , anyway,” she adds. The edge of her nail presses right against your jugular and your heart rate picks up, instinct again. Playing you like a fucking fiddle.

“Now, you like to watch, don't you?”

You give her a wary look. She pulls a narrow piece of fabric from her garter belt. You look at it, then back at her, and...

Oh,  _fuck_.

“You might want to close your eyes,” she says with a wicked smile. This would be a nice time to safeword, but how the hell would you justify that later?

Because you  _hate_ having your vision cut off. Jim was delighted when he first found out, when he had accidentally pushed your face into a pillow a bit too long and your struggling had gone from token to frantic in a matter of seconds. And apart from that, it also makes your sense of time go off, which is something you were hoping to rely on to get through this session.

She ties a knot behind your head, tight enough not to slip. The cloth is thick enough to keep most of the light out, but you can still see a little. Enough to avoid being entirely blind but not enough to be useful,  _damn_  the woman.

She disappears again. Maybe you should be grateful for the absence of touch, but with the blindfold it feels like you’ve been dropped into a six-feet deep hole. Abandoned. Your heartbeat sounds much too loud. You pull against the cuffs again, as hard as you can, but they don’t give. All your hard-found control is gone again, swept away without hardly any effort on Adler's part.

It seems like ages before she comes back and puts her hand back on your shoulder, and you jump again at the contact.

“Comfy?” she asks. Her nails dig into the muscle and something – fuck knows what, whip? crop? – strokes the back of your thigh. “Let's see if we can make you moan some more.”

She kicks your feet apart and you stumble, might have fallen if she hadn’t kept you up. Already the blindness is getting you, fucking up your sense of balance, making your other senses more acute. The touch of her hand on your shoulders feels like it should leave blisters from the heat of it, her scent is getting overwhelming, and the swish of her - her whatever-it-is sounds like a gale of wind.

The pain of the first blow comes as a shock, something pure and simple after all that fucking  _teasing_. It’s almost a relief, but it doesn’t last, ‘cause the next few blows follow too quickly on each other. You’ve got no time to prepare, to count, to even  _breathe_ , just this unending flurry of impact. Damn it all, you’ve been through far  _far_  worse when it comes to pain but it’s taking everything you have just to stay upright and Jim was right, this isn’t about the pain, it’s  _everything_ , all of it, and she’s made you helpless and you can’t keep this up can’t keep fucking  _fighting_  –

\- but you’ve got a way out of this. 

“ _Yellow_ ,” you choke out.

She stops immediately and puts her hand lightly on your shoulder. You take a huge gasping breath. God, for a second there you were convinced she would ignore you, because fuck knows Jim would have.

“Need the blindfold off?” she asks calmly.

“No,” you say, still panting. “I just – just need a minute.”

She keeps her hand on you, a subtle neutral anchor point. You try to slow down your breathing, your racing heartbeat.

Alright, review. You can’t see anything anymore. Your analytical abilities are basically in tatters, the second she starts up again you won’t have any concentration left to spare. And she’s right, you  _want_ , you’re practically shaking with need. It’s pathetic.

You could just call it a halt already, but she might get suspicious. And Jim wouldn’t like that either. So that leaves only one option, doesn’t it?

_Control, which she has –_

“Green.”

-  _and you haven’t._

She takes her hand off. The next hit catches you hard enough to make your knees buckle – she’s got a surprising amount of strength for a slight woman – and you give in, go down on your knee. She catches your shoulder and pulls your head back, scratches her nails down your throat.

“Darling,” she whispers, “go easy on yourself and just  _give in_.”

You arch your back, a wordless plea, but she only laughs and shoves you down. And then she starts hitting you again, and your last coherent thought evaporates in a strange mixture of pain and arousal and  _relief_.

***

By your inner clock you've gone overtime by at least thirty minutes. Everything hurts, cock included - no hope of any relief there, that’s pretty fucking clear - and especially your back feels like it’s on fire.

_What do you see?_

_Nothing much, Jim - why did you think this was a good idea again?_

Maybe she realised you're a fraud. Would she mention anything or just keep you like this, helpless, until you break?

Another drop of hot oil hits your chest and you groan.

“I do like the noises you make.” She pulls your hair and forces you back even further. You’ve been arched backwards for slightly too long and the muscles in your thighs and stomach are starting to quiver with the effort.

You won't beg. No matter how close to breaking point you are, you are  _not going to fucking beg_. You try to brace yourself for her next onslaught, whatever the fuck that might be, you're close to  _screaming_...

And an alarm goes off.

“That's our time,” Adler says cheerfully, and she pulls your blindfold off. The sudden light is too bright, too much. You drop forward, exhausted. Done. Finished. _Finally_.

She unlocks the cuffs and you get up on hands and knees, breathing hard. Your knees are going to  _kill_ you tomorrow.

“Can you get up?” she asks. She sounds brisk and businesslike now, nothing like the sadistic teasing of earlier.

“I think I might need a minute,” you say, voice hoarse and broken.

“Go sit on the bed when you're ready. I need to take a look at your back.” She turns and leaves the room.

You blink. You feel dazed, disoriented, like you just woke from some deep dream. Your arms are trembling, vision is still blurry around the edges. You can't even regulate your breathing, just taking great gulps of air, like someone who came near drowning.

The bed looks like it's miles away. You crawl closer - you don't trust your legs right now, they feel like rubber - and clamber onto the mattress with all the grace and skill of a toddler. It would bother you more, but hell, you haven't got much pride left anymore. 

But you didn't beg. That's something, at least.

You lean forward and clasp your hands between your legs. And you didn’t give anything away, either. She doesn’t know. And you might not have picked up much so far, but you’re still here, aren’t you? Still plenty of opportunity to do a bit of detecting.

You tilt your head back. The pain-and-lust-filled fog is starting to lift, mind working clearer again. Aftercare. Let's see if she tries to interrogate you.

After a minute or two she comes back in with a first-aid kit. She sits down on the bed next to you and douses a wad of cotton in disinfectant, with the sort of easy efficiency of someone who has done this countless times before. You turn around a bit, turning your back to her, and she wipes the scratches. You hiss at the sting.

“Sorry,” she says, suppressed laughter in her voice.

“I'm surprised to see you doing this, actually,” you say, casual enough.

“What makes you say that?”

“I don't know. It's...  _ouch_ \- ”

She dabs at another of what you suspect are open cuts. “You could have avoided this if you hadn't okayed breaking the skin on the questionnaire, you know.”

You crane your head around and smile at her. “And where would be the fun in that?”

She laughs. “Point taken. And to answer your question, it's a way to keep caring. Turn around, please.”

“Caring?” You tilt your head to give her access to the long scratches at your throat.

“I suppose it sounds strange. But you can't do this job if you despise your clients.”

“And is there any danger of that happening? I mean, all those old Etonians, coming in begging for a spanking...”

“I do have a lot of ex-boarding school boys, now that you mention it,” she says. You can hear the smile in her voice. “Strangely obsessed with caning.”

“The public schools have a lot to answer for.”

She chuckles. “They're responsible for about half of my clientele, so I'm hardly going to complain. And they're lovely men, most of them. There, that's you done.” She hands you a bottle of water and you gulp half of it down in one go. It sounds plausible. Nice, kind, makes her seem human.

It’s also complete and utter  _bullshit_.

It’s a good lie, though. If you were anyone else you would have bought it, but you know ruthlessness, see it every time you look in the mirror. Or maybe it’s the echoes of Jim you keep seeing in her, but either way you don’t think for a second she gives a fuck about any of the men that cross her threshold.

“There’s a shower in the next room, if you want?” she says while she closes the first-aid kit.

“No, it’s fine.” You doubt the bathroom is going to give you any helpful clues, and anyway, you’d prefer keeping her in sight.

“Alright then. You’ll be wanting your clothes?”

“That,” you say, grinning, “would be a very good idea.”

She stands up, smiling as well. “Oh, you never know. I once had a client who almost walked out of here naked. Kate had to chase him, waving his underwear at him.”

“Quite the image.” She hands you your trousers and you get up carefully. You almost fall over, would have if it hadn’t been for Adler’s steadying hand on your arm. Luckily you manage to get them on your own, because you're not sure if you trust Adler's hands near your crotch right now.

Trousers on, so... Right. Shoes. Waiting for you on the floor. You’re still dizzy, though, and bending over now… 

“Need a hand with those?” Adler asks, perfectly polite.

“That would be very helpful, thanks."

You sit back down on the bed and she goes down on her knees without a second of hesitation. But then again, with her clients exhausted and high on the afterglow, there's no question that she's still the one in control.

“Can I ask you a question?” she asks casually, bent over your foot.

Interrogation time. “Go ahead.”

She finishes tying your shoelaces and looks up at you, with large luminous eyes. The kind of eyes that would be very hard to resist, for some people. “Why did you come here?”

“I would think that's pretty obvious," you say.

“Hmm, maybe.” She gets up again and helps you into your shirt in silence, still waiting for an answer.

“I suppose you could say...” You do up the last button and look up at her. “You could say I'm looking for something.”

Her eyes skip over your face. Watching, dissecting, trying to work you out. “And did you find it?”

“I think I have, yes.” You stand up again. Legs still a bit wobbly, but no immediate danger of falling over. “Well, Miss Adler, it’s been a pleasure.”

She gives you a critical once-over. “You’ll be alright?”

“I’ll manage. It’s hardly the first adrenaline rush I’ve had to deal with.”

She stands up and brushes some imaginary dust from your shoulder. “The heat of battle?”

“Something like that.”

“Well, if you’re certain...” She turns away and hands you your jacket. You take it, hang it over your arm– you're still too overheated to put it on again – and roll your shoulders back. It hurts, but the pain is already starting to fade. It felt worse when you were wearing the blindfold.

She walks to the door and opens it, leaning against the doorframe. Her lace robe clings to her hip, falls past her leg. “I’ll be seeing you again,” she says. Statement of fact, not a question.

“Will you?”

The corner of her mouth quirks up. “Goodbye, Mr Anders.”

A very slight emphasis on the fake name. And that look in her eyes… “Goodbye, Miss Adler,” you say, feeling a little thrown.

She closes the door. Does she know? Or suspect, at least?

But that’s for Jim to work out. You turn and go back down the stairs.

***

There’s a car with a driver waiting outside, which is a good thing. Apart from the fact that being squashed in with about a dozen people pressed against your tortured back would probably make you scream again, you’re also entirely too out of it to do anything as focused as  _driving_ , or  _getting off at the right station_. Hell, the way you are now you’d probably end up in Heathrow.

You watch the buildings slide slowly past - traffic jam again. You lean your head against the window. It’s cool beneath your cheek. The driver gives you an odd look in the rear-view mirror and you feel a sudden urge to laugh. Endorphins, no doubt, giving you a happy boost now the pain is over. No wonder all those bankers slip away for a quick spot of spanking and bondage in their lunch breaks, if this is how they get back - even you feel like you could tackle accountancy right now.

“Sir? We’re here.”

You stagger out of the car and step to the door. Jim. Right. He’ll probably be less than pleased with your current - current  _gigglyness,_ but then he shouldn’t have sent you in the first place. Sorry, Jimmy-boy, too late to complain.

You catch your reflection in the mirror of the lift. No outwardly visible marks, apart from the scratches on your throat, already fading, and a slight red line on your wrists. If she had used metal handcuffs you would have torn your skin open,  _god_ how you struggled.

It takes three tries before you get the key into the lock. You step inside and look around.

“I’m ba _-mph_.” You suddenly find yourself against the wall, Jim's tongue down your throat, moulded against you hips to shoulder.

You should've seen this coming, really. He’s been edgy ever since he took Adler’s case, and naturally this would bring out his possessive streak.

He sweeps your feet from under you and you go down hard, lacerated shoulders against the carpet that’s nowhere near thick enough to break your fall, _fuck_ that hurts.

Jim stands over you. The expression on his face is ominous, and it’s more than enough to dispel your cheerfulness. “Turn over.”

Alright, definitely possessive, and this would be one of those few times where he  _doesn’t_ like you to talk back. You roll onto your stomach and he settles down on top of you. His hands slide under the hem of your shirt and then he tears - you can almost hear the good people of Spencer Hart sobbing in their immaculate stylish store.

Silence, probably examining the damage. If it looks anywhere near as spectacular as it feels, it should be one hell of a sight. He sighs and smooths his palm over the marks, gentle and careful, and you shudder.

And then he curls his fingers and scratches right across the sorest part.

You jolt in surprise, instinctively trying to throw him off. “Jesus  _Christ_ , give me a minute, will you?”

“Did she break you?” he asks, mocking, as he runs his fingers through your hair.

“Don't be ridiculous.” He pulls at your hair, a quiet reminder not to bullshit. “She came damned close, though,” you admit. “She's good.”

“How good?”

“Bitch fucking  _blindfolded_  me.”

He laughs. “Oh, I bet you loved that. Could be a lucky guess, though.”

“Doubt it. She's a really good cold-reader. Knew I was a soldier the moment I stepped in the – for  _fuck's sake_  – ”

The soft pad of his finger lovingly criss-crosses over the mark just left by his nails. It would be entirely true to his obsessive nature to replace every mark she left on your skin with one of his own, never mind how you feel about that. One session straight after the other,  _Christ_ , is he trying to kill you?

“Might I remind you that this was your fucking idea?” you say, half muffled by the carpet. “And that I didn’t even want to go in the first place?”

“And I’ve explained to you that you're the only one I can trust not to get distracted. You didn't, did you?”

“Get distracted? Not beyond er, acceptable levels,” you say, and curse again when his short but sharp fingernails trace another welt. It feels like he's drawing blood. “Are you going to go over every single one of them?”

He leans closer. “Did you beg?” he asks wetly.

“No.” His hand covers yours on the carpet and you curl your thumb around his. “No, Jim, it's just you.”

He nuzzles close. “Just me,” he repeats softly. The strange light-headed feeling of earlier is starting to fade, and instead you just feel calm. Peaceful. Floating on a happy pink cloud of faded pain and Jim’s reassuring presence. No more fucking covers, no pretence.

He rolls off and lies on his back on the carpet, hands folded over his stomach, eyes closed. “Now tell me,” he says, “What did you  _see_?”

You close your eyes as well and start describing what happened, starting at the maid opening the door and going from there. You give him every single detail you remember, even the embarrassing ones, but leave it to him to make sense of it all.

***

“Are you going to tell me what she wants?”

“No.”

Whatever it is he gleaned from all the little things you told him, it's enough for him to decide meeting Irene Adler isn’t a waste of time. In person even, no go-betweens or smokescreens or disguises, which means she’s important, massively so. Or very _very_ persuasive.

It’s going to be interesting seeing those two together.

“I’m going to find out anyway, if you’re letting me stay in the meeting.”

He gives you a look.

“Stating the obvious, am I?” you ask, raising your hands in a gesture of innocence.

“You are. Get dressed.”

You button your shirt, roll your shoulders back. Most of the welts have disappeared by now, the worst scratches have scabbed over and your wrists would be bruise-free too, if only Jim had been able to contain himself.

You watch him as he rifles through his ties. His shoulders are tense. “Need anything?” you ask carefully.

“What I  _need_ is for you to shut up.”

Not the best of moods, then. You roll your eyes behind his back -  _don’t think I didn’t see that,_ he snaps - and go and bring the car around.

***

“- _and in other news, the police has arrested three suspects in connection to the recent theft and murder on pleasure-cruise Tilly Briggs. When asked about the rumours of the police employing outside advisers, Inspector Lestrade said that_ \- ”

“Turn that off.”

You switch it off. “Were they talking about Ho-”

“Sebastian.” You glance at him. His lips are thin, jaw tight. “Another word and I swear I’m going to leave you tied up naked to Nelson’s Column so  _shut. Up.”_

“Right.”

The rest of the drive continues in fragile silence. Good thing the traffic’s alright, because if you had been late, he’d be... well. Even more  _put out_.

The restaurant they’ve agreed on is supposed to be neutral ground, but what Adler doesn’t know is that the restaurant in question is owned by Jim. Not directly, of course, they’re about half a dozen aliases and puppet companies between him and the name on the official documents. Or maybe she does know that, maybe she just realised she has very little choice in the matter.

You hold open the front door for Jim. Adler is already there when you enter, sitting at a table in the middle of the room, nicely observable by everyone present. Jim barely looks at her and walks straight past to the small private room at the back.

She smiles when she spots you. No surprise, no confusion, so either she worked out who you are in advance, or she’s _really_  good at keeping a straight face. Either way, it’s impressive. You walk to her table and give her a nod. “Miss Adler.”

She looks up at you. No visible fear either, but if she's anywhere near as sensible as you think she is, she knows to be careful.

“Mr Anders, is it? Or is it Moran?”

Did her research, then. “You're very well-informed.”

“Clearly not enough,” she says wryly.

“This way, please.” You offer her your arm, the very picture of civility. She takes it gracefully, fingers curling into your bicep, leaning into you in a way that’s a little more than just friendly.

“Should I be worried?” she asks when she sees where you're leading her.

“Probably. Although if he really wants you dead, there isn't much you can do anyway.”

“That's reassuring. Although it could be he wants to hear what I've got to say first and then kill me afterwards. It would explain why you're carrying a gun.”

Your hand moves automatically to your shoulder holster and she smiles. “You didn't know for sure if I was carrying, did you?” you ask, resignedly.

“No, so thank you for confirming that.” She winks at you, the minx.

You hold the door of the back room open and she goes in, sits down at the table. Jim is sitting across, playing with his phone and ignoring her. You close the door - she winces almost imperceptibly when she hears the lock click shut - and sit down between them.

“Mr Moriarty,” she says warmly. “Such an honour to meet you in the flesh.”

“Likewise,” he replies, in a tone that implies the exact opposite. He doesn't look up from his phone, it's like he's trying to be as insulting as possible.

Not that Adler gives in. In fact, she seems to take up the challenge, because under the cover of the table she slides her nylon-clad foot up your calf. You only just manage to suppress your twitch of surprise. Jim doesn't notice, or pretends not to notice.

“I must say I'm a little surprised,” she continues. “I was expecting an email, or a phonecall at most. Not that I'm not flattered, but...” She trails off, waiting for a reply.

She doesn't get one. Jim simply continues playing with his phone, giving no indication that he heard here, or even that he's aware she's there.

Which is something she obviously doesn't like. She narrows her eyes a little. “Of course, if you're not interested," she says, a little too sharp, "I can take my business elsewhere.”

“I'm  _here_ , aren't I? Why would I be  _here_ if I wasn't  _interested_?” It's his I'm-seriously-fed-up-with-you voice, the one he uses when people are annoying him. It's meant to be unsettling, but Irene Adler doesn't do intimidated.

Beneath the table, her foot slides higher, and Jim is sitting less than a foot away and if you try to push her off you’ll only draw attention to it,  _damn_ her games.

Irene cocks her head. Planning maybe, deciding on the best approach, like she did with you. “I need advice on a matter of... " She waves an elegantly manicured hand, smiles. "Let’s say not-entirely-legally acquired sensitive material.”

Jim still doesn’t look up. “I'm surprised you need  _advice_. You seem to be managing quite well on your own.”

“I'm not a criminal.”

You snort, and the corner of her mouth curls up. “Oh, but I'm not,” she says. “The things I do may skirt the edges of legality but I take care to never cross them. Well, not obviously, at least.”

“Except when you're stealing state secrets,” Jim says.

She widens her eyes. “Borrowing. I don't  _publish_ them, I just keep them around until I might have need for them.”

“That's something we in the business call  _blackmail_ , Miss Adler,” he sneers.

“I want more than just a bit of blackmail.” She leans back and crosses her arms. Her foot creeps a little higher, nudging the back of your knee. “I have documents of national importance. Pictures that would get people in some very high places fired. Voice recordings that would get them arrested for high treason. And I want to use all that to play the  _really_ important people.”

“But you don't know how,” Jim says, condescending. Revelling in his superiority. You shift uneasily.

Adler gives him a sweet smile. “Like I said, I'm not a criminal. I have very little doubt that I could work something out, find a few threads, the right buttons to push... But it seemed more  _expedient_  to hire someone who has experience in those matters.”

Making it sound like she's hiring Jim to do the dirty work instead of asking him for help. 1-0 for Adler.

Jim doesn’t react, just continues fiddling with his phone. Not even giving her the courtesy of looking her in the face. “Well, you'd be hard pressed to find someone more  _experienced_  than me, that's true. But need I remind you that I haven't taken your case on yet?”

“Waiting for me to impress you?”

“Seeing if you're worth my time.”

“Most people I've dealt with seem to think so.”

“I'm not  _most people_.”

“ _Mr Moriarty_ ,” she drawls. “Can we get to business now or do you prefer another few rounds of powerplay?”

His fingers pause over his phone and he finally looks up at her. Your hand edges carefully towards your gun.

“I don't  _play_ , Miss Adler,” he replies, smiling one of his best psycho-smiles.

“I know, you take your work very seriously. It's why I came to you. I'm used to the best.”

And a little flattery thrown into the mix as well. It's like watching a fencing match, only more lethal.

“Most people who talk to me like that don't live very long, you know,” he says, more testing the waters than a genuine threat.

“Force of habit?” she replies innocently. “I do this for a living, remember.”

“Oh, I never forget anything.” He extends his hand, palm up. “Show me what you have, then.”

She leans down and gets her phone from her purse, keeping her balance perfectly even though she's still got her foot on your thigh. “There's quite a lot on here, I'm proud to say. One or two things I'm not exactly sure about as well.” She hands the phone over and Jim starts flipping through the files. After a while, his eyebrows meet his hairline. You lean sideways and sneak a peek at the screen.

“Bloody hell, is that - ”

“It is,” Irene says, grinning like a cat that got the cream. “Lovely girl.”

“Limber too, by the looks of it.”

Jim prods you none too gently in the side and you sit back. Irene's foot pushes gently against your thigh. You take advantage of Jim's momentary distraction to give her a warning look, but she only smiles and raises her eyebrows.

“What's this?”

She tears her eyes away from your face. “Hm?” Jim flips the phone around and she frowns. “Not sure. I had an expert take a look at it, but even he couldn't make sense of it.”

Jim's head sways slightly, the way he does when his brain is working overtime. “It  _looks_ like the seat plan of a plane. Context?”

“I got it from a man at the MOD, ex-soldier turned office boy, looking for a little excitement in his life.” She looks briefly at you. “Amazing stamina they've got, those army men. They're always a challenge. Anyway, he told me it was going to save the world, whatever that means. He might have been exaggerating, trying to impress me. I seem to have that effect on some people.” She smiles, and Jim huffs again. “But you think it's genuinely important?” she asks.

“It might be. I'll need to look into it.” He puts the phone back on the table. “Now, when you say  _really important people_...”

“Mycroft Holmes.”

Ah. That explains his interest. The Holmes boys always get precedence, and you only have to remember Mycroft’s fixed colourless stare to understand  _why_.

“The Iceman,” Jim drawls. He leans forward and gives her his full attention. Almost everyone cracks under Jim's overly intense gaze, but Adler doesn’t even blink.

“A little bird told me he's the man I want,” she says, watching Jim closely. “I've got nothing on him, but I was told you were something of an expert.”

"You were told right." He crosses his arms and leans back, still watching her. “He has a weak spot, Mycroft, just the one. His brother. That's your way in.”

“How?” she asks sharply. The languid amusement has turned to genuine fascination. No more masks, no play-acting. Either she’s lost track - unlikely - or she has realised masks don’t work on Jim.

“He's  _protective_ , Mycroft. Fiercely loyal to Queen and Country, of course,” he sneers, “but he'd betray even them if it was necessary to save his baby brother.”

“So threatening the brother?” She frowns, shakes her head. “No, too direct. But if I can implicate him somehow...”

“Make him responsible for leaking some of that information you have,” Jim adds. “And Mycroft will do anything you want him to to cover that up. As for how you're going to draw dear Sherlock in...”

“Oh, I can think of something.” She smiles. “I can be very alluring, if I want to be.”

“So I've heard,” he says, with a glance at you. Your attention is starting to waver, though. Adler's toes are gently kneading the inside of your thigh, and as long as she stays there you can keep your composure but if she moves just a little to the right...

“So I suppose the information has to be provably unique?” she asks.

He nods. “Destroy all other copies. You could try to fool them and hold one back, but I wouldn't advise it.”

“And I'll need some way to make the phone unhackable.”

“You can leave that with me,” Jim says.

“I don't think so.”

Jim's smile freezes. You sit up a little straighter and your hand goes back to your gun. “I'm sorry?” Jim asks, polite enough but you can hear the ice cold threat beneath it.

And so can Adler. She tenses up, almost imperceptibly, but she doesn't back down. “I'd be a fool to let that kind of information out of my hands,” she says, friendly smile dying away. “You understand.”

“Do I,” he echoes.

It's like the temperature in the room suddenly dropped several degrees. Jim's got that look on his face that means  _ready to kill_ , and Adler... Well, she's still unreadable, but the tension is coming off of her in waves.

She puts her hand over the phone, an oddly protective gesture. “This phone, Mr Moriarty, is without any exaggeration everything I have," she says coolly. "It's my insurance, and I'm not about to give it away, whatever the reason may be.”

“In that case we have a little problem,” Jim says smoothly, but under the cover of the table he grips your knee, hard. “Because unless that phone is one hundred percent,  _absolutely_  safe, my plans will collapse. And the thing about my plans,  _Miss Adler_ , is that I never allow them to collapse.”

She smiles again, but it’s forced, thin. “And if I give it to you, what assurance do I have you won't keep it for yourself and send your  _dog_  to finish me off?”

Jim leans forward and you brace yourself for the fireworks. “ _Give me the phone_ ,” he snarls, abandoning all pretence.

“No,” she says, smile disappearing. The air is practically crackling with tension, and any second either of them is going to do something drastic and this whole thing is going to go tits up unless -

“Then do it yourself,” you say, and two pairs of burning eyes turn in your direction. It's like being hit by a sledgehammer. You clear your throat. “I'm, er, I’m sure you know someone who can protect the phone for you, make sure it can't be taken apart. And you can hand it over to us, afterwards.”

Adler's expression goes thoughtful and Jim relaxes a bit. But then Adler tilts her head and gives you a very dangerous smile. “Clever, isn't he, your pet? I meant to ask,” she says, eyes on you but addressing Jim. “Do you lend him out? Because if you give me another few hours with him I'm sure I can get him to beg.”

Irene foot finally slides that last distance to the right, resting firmly against your crotch. Jim twists his hand, putting pressure on the tendons of your knee. You grip the edge of the table and do your best to keep quiet, because it’s perfectly fucking clear that this isn’t about you.

He mirrors her smile, honey masking the poison beneath. “I'm afraid you'll have to find your own. This one's  _mine_.”

Your stomach flips.

“Oh, but you can join in too, you want. I don't mind a threesome,” she says, twisting her foot.

You make a choked noise that sounds like nothing so much as a squeak and look pleadingly at Jim - he  _can’t_ , he  _wouldn’t_ \- and he smiles, still looking at Adler, leaving you feeling like you’re teetering on the edge of precipice.

“I don’t think so,” Jim says at last. Irene drops her foot back to the floor, much to your relief. There’s a slight click of her stiletto heel as she settles her foot back into her shoe.

“But he has a point. I do know a very talented engineer, or rather,” she smiles, “I know what he likes. I’m sure he won’t mind helping me out. So I need to make sure it can't be taken apart?”

“Make him put in a self-destruct mechanism,” Jim says.

“Rigged to a code as well, I should think. One code to open – “

“And one to go  _boom_.”

Irene smiles. “Exactly.”

It's fascinating, now they've stopped trying to one up each other they're actually very well-matched. You sit up a little and try to adjust your trousers without anyone noticing.

“But I'll still need to test it, once you've had it secured,” Jim adds. “Make sure it actually  _is_ unhackable.”

“Is that really necessary? My engineer is quite good, I can assu- ”

“ _Irene_ ,” Jim purrs. He's echoing her, you realise, mirroring her own seduction back at her. “Forgive me my neuroticism, but I want to be  _sure_.”

“You don't trust me?”

He gives her an innocent look, another one of her own expressions reflected back. “I'd say it's nothing personal, but, well, it kind of is.”

She laughs. “Very well. Give me a week, that should be long enough, and then you can come pick it up. If that's alright by you?”

He raises his hands, palms up. “Sounds good to me.”

“So.” She slips the phone back into her purse. “How much do I owe you?”

“Nothing.”

She gives him an openly surprised look. “Really? I do have the money, if you're wondering.”

“I know that. I'm not interested in money.”

“Then what are you interested in?” she asks, tilting her head.

Jim smiles in response. “Surely you don’t expect me to answer that?”

“A girl can try,” she says, laughing. “And if that's all for now...” She gets up but waves you down before you can move. “No, don't get up. I'll see myself out and leave you two to it,” she says with a significant look at your lap.

She walks out. Jim watches her leave with a faraway look on his face. He looks at the table, back at the closed door, lost in thought.

Then he looks back at you, and his mouth curls up in disgust. “That was pathetic,” he says derisively. “She had you wrapped around her little finger.”

You shrug. “Told you she was good. And you weren't exactly helping.”

He grins. It isn’t a particularly nice grin. “But you do squirm so prettily. It seemed a shame not to play along.”

He gets up and locks the door, turns around and leans against it, arms crossed. All his attention is focused on you again and after a whole day of keeping it strictly business it’s a bit sudden.

And you can still feel the pressure of Adler’s foot on your thigh.

“This room isn't soundproof, so you'll have to keep quiet. Think you can manage that?” he asks

“Depends on what you intend to do,” you say slowly.

“I'm feeling insecure,” he says with a leer that's anything but. “I need you to  _prove_  yourself to me.”

“Again?” You get up from the chair and walk slowly to where he's standing.

“Again,” he affirms, “again and again and,” He licks his lips. “Again.”

You fall to your knees.

***

Security cameras whizz as they turn to keep you in view. You smirk and flip them the finger, and a passing woman frowns at you. You wink at her and she makes a ridiculous huffing sound and hurries along as quickly as her perilously-high heels allow her.

Belgravia, land of the easily-offended. God, this place disgusts you, it’s all just too shiny. Although you do approve of Irene Adler taking up residence here. Hypocrisy is all and well, but one of the unwritten rules of this place is that  _her kind_ are supposed to skulk around the edges. And Irene Adler parades around with her head held high, unashamed, a  _whore_ living right amidst the upper crust... Christ, they must be choking in fury. 

Yet another reason to like her.

You ring the doorbell. A moment later her voice comes from the speaker. “Who is it?”

“The courier,” you say wryly.

“I think you’re a bit more than that, aren’t you? Come in.”

The door buzzes and you step inside. And stare. She's in jeans and a too-large t-shirt, no makeup, hair in a messy ponytail. You’re left with the same feeling of cognitive dissonance as when Jim leaves off his suits and walks around in your clothes. It just feels  _wrong_.

“I'm sorry,” she says with a smile, “did I spoil some secret fantasy of yours? Did you think I frolic around in lace underwear all the time?”

“I hadn't really given it that much thought.”

“Really,” she says, looking you up and down. It says something for her that even dressed like that she can still pull off the whole smouldering femme fatale thing.

You clear your throat. “The phone?”

“To business already?” She gives you a heavy-lidded promise-filled look. “I was thinking we could have a bit of fun, first. I cleared my entire afternoon for you, so we might as well use it.”

You laugh. “As tempting as that is, Miss Adler, I really can't. Jim would flay me alive, and that's not a figure of speech.”

“Pity. Alright then, follow me.”

She leads you to a sitting room at the far end of the house and pours you a glass. “Wait here, please,” she says graciously, and leaves you to enjoy your drink.

It's good scotch, the expensive stuff. You swirl it around your mouth, swallow, let the aftertaste linger on the back of your tongue. Just for a second you wonder if it’s drugged - but no, she wouldn’t risk messing with you, not after Jim’s little demonstration of possessiveness.

Doesn't mean she's not dangerous. Even apart from your own judgement, there's the fact that you've never seen Jim this concentrated on anyone, with the obvious exception of the Holmes brothers. And if he's giving her his full attention, that means she warrants it.

Good thing she’s on your side. Not that you have any doubts that Jim would win, Jim always wins, but she could do a lot of damage. Can do, now that you think of it, she knows the face behind _James Moriarty_ , knows how he works, probably has deduced a thing or two about you as well. There are quite a few people who’d give a lot for that information. But use any of that and Jim would come after her full force.

Mutually assured destruction. It seems to be working so far.

“Sorry for the wait.”

You turn around. She’s leaning in the doorway, could’ve been there for quite a while, lost in thought as you were. Watching you, studying you.

You shake your head. “You're being very cautious.”

“I like risks, but that doesn't mean I'm reckless.”

“Well put.” You hold out your hand for the phone but she walks straight past you, sitting down opposite of you and crossing her legs, holding the phone to her chest. Like someone dangling a piece of string in front of a cat and pulling it away at the last moment. Playing games.

You raise your eyebrows at her.

“Tell me, Mr Moran,” she says thoughtfully. “Because I never did get an answer. What guarantee do I have your boss won't just take this phone and put a hit on me immediately afterwards?" 

“None whatsoever.”

She raises an eyebrow of her own. “And you still expect me to play along?”

“It's far too late to back out now, Miss Adler.”

She leans back, face closed off, and this is why Jim sent you and not some other delivery boy.

“Look,” you say steadily, “what you've got on that phone? It's very impressive. It's also not that special. Jim's got  _tons_  of stuff like that. He isn't interested in the code, or the pictures. He's interested in  _you_ , because you can give him something he wants.”

She’s silent for a while, studying you, head held to one side. You let her watch, even though it’s a little uncomfortable, because this time you have neither your disguise nor Jim to hide behind.

“I think I might have underestimated you,” she says at last. “You're more than just dumb muscle, aren't you?”

“I couldn’t  _possibly_ comment,” you drawl, and she smiles.

“So what is it Jim Moriarty wants?” she asks, leaning back. “Mycroft Holmes?”

“The Iceman.”

The corner of her mouth quirks up. “Right. Tell me, does the brother have a nickname too?”

“The Virgin,” you say, not bothering to hide your grin, because that never stops being hilarious.

She laughs in surprise. “The  _virgin_? Well, I can definitely work with that.”

“I’m sure you can.” You take a sip from your scotch. She’s watching you again, sharp and amused. It’s a lot easier to bear that gaze with your trousers still on, though.

“What about you?” she asks suddenly.

“Pardon?”

“ _Stephen Anders_. How much of it was a lie?”

“Does it matter?”

“Consider it my professional pride. I hate the idea of having misread someone.”

Like hell, she just wants to dig for information. “You’ll just have to suffer through it, I’m afraid. The  _phone_ , Miss Adler.”

“Oh, fine.” She hands it over. Her nails are still red, the only trace left of her usual appearance. “My engineer was very pleased with the result,” she says. “He permanently shut off any external connections too. The only way in now is the password.”

“I'll need his name.”

“So you can torture him to tell you how to disarm it?”

“I thought we were done playing this game,” you say calmly. She looks back at you, just as calm, and it strikes you just how  _good_  she is at this. You’ve got no way of telling what's going on behind those sea-green eyes.

“His name is Jeremy Green,” she says finally. “He lives in Soho. Pity, I liked the man.”

You slip the phone in your inside pocket and drain your glass. Transaction completed, but unless you completely misjudged her, she won’t leave it at that.

“At least now I know what that  _M_ stands for,” she say suddenly.

You almost drop your glass.

“You should  _hear_  some of the things people say about you,” she continues with visible interest.

You shrug. "Rumours. Not much truth in them, really. I can’t make someone’s heart stop just by glaring at them, for example, and neither can Jim. As far as I know.”

“That’s not the kind of rumours I was thinking of,” she says, and her eyes drop to your throat, where the upper part of a particularly savage love bite peeks above your collar. If you know what to look for, you can see the teeth marks. “I know all about possessiveness, Mr Moran, but cutting your initials in someone’s back? That’s going a bit far, isn’t it?”

“Jim does everything with a little more, ah,  _intensity_ than most people.”

“So I’ve seen. Extraordinary man, your...”

“Boss,” you say firmly.

“Boss. And you're his bodyguard, yes? His – what do they call you again? – his shadow?”

“Hmm. It’s not that far off the mark, as far as monikers go. I follow him everywhere and do whatever he wants me to, so.”

“Including sharing his bed?”

“Among other things, yes.” You smile. “You think I do that out of sense of duty? Because he pays me for it?”

“No. No, I saw the way you look at him.” She tilts her head. “Saw the way he looks at you, too. It’s not just a job, is it?”

“It’s my life,” you say simply, and she nods.

It’s... probably more than you should have said. Although it couldn’t be that much of an advantage, could it, knowing that? It’s not like you gave her the Knightsbridge address, or started talking about Jim’s nightmares.

“Pity,” she says. “I could have used someone like you.”

“Your pretty redhead isn’t enough?”

“Kate?” She laughs. “Oh, she’s  _excellent_ at what she does, but she’s not... Well. Let’s just say your talents lie in other areas. So if you ever start wondering what it’s like, working for someone whose idea of inspiring loyalty does not include scars and violence... ”

You stand up. “It goes far beyond loyalty,” you say, looking down at her. Again it’s a little more than you should have said, but there’s something about her that makes you open up.

Dangerous woman.

“I take it we're finished here?” she asks with an unreadable smile.

"Yeah, I think we are."

She stands up and walks you to the hall. You haven't seen many women who can walk gracefully in flats, but Adler of course pulls it off flawlessly, hips swaying.  But even that arse isn’t enough to distract you from the muffled footsteps above. You turn around and look up. Standing on the landing is Adler’s assistant - Kate, was it? - frowning down at the both of you.

“Go back up, darling, I’ll be with you in a minute,” Adler says lightly, but you recognise that tone, and the command beneath it. It’s a not-in-front-of-strangers voice, a we’ll-discuss-this-in-private promise.

Kate meets your eyes. Maybe you were expecting some kind of solidarity, a shared feeling of long-suffering loyalty for mad, bad, and dangerous geniuses, but she’s looking at you as if she’s trying hard not to come down and punch you in the face. That’s a look you recognise too, but usually you have more of an idea why they think you deserve it.

“Kate,” Irene says sharply, and the girl turns without another word.

You watch her go up. “Doesn’t approve, does she? Or is she jealous?”

“Kate doesn’t do jealousy,” Adler says absently, “and it doesn’t matter if she approves or not.”

Ouch. You clear your throat and turn back to her. “Well, Miss Adler,” you say.

She opens the door and leans against it. “Well, Mr Moran,” she answers. Her eyes land on the general area of your inside pocket, where her phone is resting, and her amused smile slips a little.

“If he breaks into that phone, I'm dead, aren't I?” she says, matter-of-fact.

“Almost definitely.”

She nods. “How much time will he need?”

“A few days? And if the security stands up, he'll want to discuss strategy.”

She takes a deep breath. No doubt the next few days are going to be a bit unpleasant for her. “In that case, I suppose I'll be seeing you again?”

“Let’s hope so. Good luck, Miss Adler.”

She smiles tiredly. “ _Luck_  has nothing to do with it, Mr Moran.”

“In which case it all comes down to your judgement. See you around,” you smirk, “Mistress.”

You go down the steps with the silver-tinkle of her laugh in your ears.

***

Three days later the phone is still secure, despite Jim's best efforts, and Jim's best efforts are a great deal more impressive than anything the government can come up with. He's been holed up in the study day and night, surrounded by all sorts of high-tech equipment he had you drag up from the other floors, tinkering away.

The worst thing is that there's nothing you can do to help: you know fuck all about computers and codes and bloody passwords. Jim did try to teach you some basic stuff at first, but after about an hour he grew annoyed and started making pointed comments about everything from your education to your family and your sexual prowess, which eventually escalated into throwing random things at you. You’ve been giving him space since then, playing the passive onlooker.

You're not accustomed to feeling useless. It's profoundly annoying.

You flip through the channels. Reruns of Doctor Who, something about antiques, news. There’s a piece about Afghanistan, because apparently soldier number three hundred has kicked the bucket and the media do love their round numbers. It’s... oddly nostalgic, seeing the uniforms, the barracks. Although you don’t exactly miss the pompous wankers who are supposed to be in charge.

“ _He’ll always be remembered_ ,” the Colonel says solemnly, as if he even knew the poor dead bastard’s name before they handed him the personnel file.

The newsreader looks up from her papers and switches cameras. _“New developments were made in the case surrounding Silver Blaze. The missing racehorse turned into an internet sensation once it was discovered that Sherlock Holmes, the blogging detective, was brought in on an advisory function._ ”

Again? He must have some good contacts at the BBC to keep appearing like this.

“I blame the cheekbones.”

The remote goes flying from your hands. “Jesus  _fuck_ , can you not?” you say, turning around to glare at him. He’s holding a bottle, sleeves rolled up, hair a little ruffled - probably snuck out of the study and to the kitchen, all without you noticing.

“He looks good on camera,” Jim continues, ignoring your complaining. “And it’s all very...” He waves his hand. “Web 2.0. A blogger and his followers. Interactivity. They think it’s  _trendy_.”

“Trendy?”

He swings his legs over the sofa and sits on the back, knee leaning against your shoulder. “They’ll tire of him eventually. Nothing ever  _lasts_.”

You look up. His face is twisted in an expression of disgust. “It’s just TV, Jim.”

“It’s  _people_ ,” he says, and you leave it be.

After Holmes it’s something about economy. You switch it off - no amount of boredom is going to get you interested in market analysis - and Jim slides off the couch, heading back for his study. You trail after him. This time he doesn’t seem to mind your presence.

He crouches down on the floor, face level with his workbench and the phone, lying on a piece of cloth.

“Any progress?” you ask, trying to sound casual.

“No. Her engineer has done a decent job.” He prods at the phone with a tiny screwdriver. “Which reminds me - ”

“Jeremy Green's widow is identifying his body as we speak, not that there's much left to identify. He jumped in front of a train. Well, I say  _jump_...”

“As long as no one gets suspicious. Pass me the adapter, will you?”

You look at the table, which is strewn with several tiny metal wrenches, random wires, batteries, and those dark green plaques with copper wiring all over them. You tend to think of all that as  _computer stuff_ , without differentiating.

“Er...”

He looks up from the phone, annoyed. “The  _adapter,_  black, square, at the edge of the table, god you're stupid. Remind me why I keep you around again?”

“Because I look good in a suit.” You hand him the adapter and he snorts.

“Good point. Make sure you never get fat.”

“I won't. So you're satisfied with it?”

“Give it another day, just to be safe. And then, well, Miss Adler and I are going to have a little chat about the Holmes boys.” He looks up from the desk. “I have to admit, I'm looking forward to seeing her in action. Our little virgin won't know what's hit him.”

He grins, the one you’ve privately labelled as the  _scheming evil mastermind_ - _smirk,_  and you almost feel sorry for Holmes.

Only almost, though. As far as you’re concerned, the stuck-up arrogant bastard deserves what’s coming.

***

He keeps you away from his next meeting with Irene. It's a bit unusual for him to be this secretive around you, but when it comes to Sherlock Holmes he's always unpredictable.  _More_  unpredictable.

And it seems Jim isn’t the only one interested in Holms anymore. As Jim said, the press love him. He pops up in the news almost every week, and while most newspapers keep to pictures and bad puns, a couple of editors use him as an excuse to write long pompous articles about the sorry state of the law enforcement in the UK – if only they knew that almost a quarter of the police is indirectly on Jim’s payroll.

For the most part it’s simply amusing, but there are one or two cases he solved that Jim has advised on and that could get dangerous. He’s getting too close, and if this were anyone else he’d be dead already.

“What are you and Adler waiting for, anyway?” you ask, when once more Sherlock Holmes hits the front page, this time in a hat.

“The right moment,” he says, eyeing the picture.

“And when will that be?”

He glances up at you. “You’ll just have to wait and see, won’t you?”

Still nothing. You hate it when he locks you out like this.

That same evening you finally give in and find John Watson’s blog. He writes like an over-enthusiastic sixth-grader and the comments are laughable, but a large amount of what he’s written is eerily familiar. Sudden strange texts, body parts in the fridge, being ordered around without having any clue as to what you’re doing...

“Compare and contrast, Seb,” Jim says, looking over your shoulder. “Spot the differences.”

“Do tell me if you feel a sudden urge to blow up cans of beer, will you?”

Jim clucks his tongue and leans closer. “I almost don’t know why I bother. He’s an amateur, really.”

“Except when he’s not,” you say, remembering the gun, the pool.

“Good point.” He leans in and bites the top of your ear. “Get up, darling, we have proper work to do.”

***

Your knees are getting carpet burned.

It’s your own fault, you should have put some trousers on after your shower. Or at least grabbed a pillow _before_ dropping down onto your knees in front of the sofa, between Jim’s spread legs, but, well. The little fuck can be irresistible, sometimes.

And to be honest, it's utterly worth it, considering you’re slowly dissolving Jim’s usual control and get to see him melt into a contented boneless puddle of lust.

You suck a little deeper and he makes a happy little noise, one arm flung wide over the back of the sofa, the other in your hair. It’s strangely peaceful as well, at least until a sudden loud blare of music almost makes you choke in surprise.

-  _I can't decide whether you should live or die -_

Jim's phone. You lean back and look up. “Really?” you ask, eyebrow raised.

Jim checks the number and frowns. “I need to take this. Behave.” He even wags his finger at you.

 _\- my heart feels dead inside, it's cold and hard and –_ “Yes?”

You look up at him. His face is flushed but his voice is perfectly composed, and it really is too tempting an opportunity to ignore. You bend down and take him back into your mouth, lips sliding slowly up. He twitches in surprise.

“Couldn't agree more,” he says, as cool as if – well, as if he didn't have his cock in someone else's mouth right now. Eternally in control, Jim. “Same place in, say, two days’ time?”

You keep your eyes on him and swallow. He squeezes his eyes shut and you can see him mouth a silent curse.

“Excellent,” he says, a little breathless. “See you there.”

He pushes a button and throws the phone onto the cushions. You pull off again and put on your most innocent expression. “Someone important?”

“What the  _hell_  do you think you're playing at?” he says lazily.

“Behaving. Oh, you wanted me to  _stop_? You should have been clearer.”

“Very funny.” He leans forward and crosses his legs behind your back, trapping you. “That was Irene Adler.”

“In that case, you're probably good.” You put your hands on his thighs, slide them up. “I can't imagine  _her_  taking exception to someone having sex while on the phone.”

“But it isn't what I would call  _professional,_  Seb.” He takes your neck and pulls you close. “You made me look bad,” he whispers slowly in your ear.

You shiver, you can’t help it. More than three years with him and you’re still not used to how  _dangerous_  he can sound.

“So what shall I do with you, hm?” he asks, as if he’s reviewing his options, going over a checkli-

Damn. Irene’s thing. You  _knew_  that list was going to come back to haunt you. And yes, of course he knows that’s what you’re thinking of and his eyes light up. “Got it. Don’t go anywhere.”

He gets up and disappears to the bedroom. You can hear him rummage around and you spread your hands out on the sofa, take a deep breath. Whatever he has thought of, you’re not going to like it. Or maybe you will, in a backwards embarrassed sort of way, ‘cause Jim delights in seeing you squirm.

He whistles. You turn around, still on your knees, and watch him leaning in the doorway.

“Catch,” he says, and throws you something.

Hard plastic, flared base, you don’t need to be Irene Adler to know what this is for. “Are you fucking joking?”

He smiles. “Do I look like I’m joking? Now get over here, finish off what you started,” his hands drop to his flies, “and then I am going to take my sweet time putting  _that_  inside of you.”

“I’m meeting with a representative of the Yakuza this afternoon,” you say slowly.

“Yes, I know.” He smirks, showing off his teeth. “Did I mention it has remote control?”

You look down at the plug. It’s... big. Textured. And bright pink, just to up the humiliation factor. “And I suppose you’re not going to...” You wave a hand vaguely at your crotch and he rolls his eyes.

“Of  _course_ not, it would hardly be punishment if I did, now, would it?”

You spring up and cross the room. “This isn’t exactly being professional either, if you ask me,” you say, but you can’t keep the laughter out of your voice. Only Jim would be twisted enough to think of this - or no, only he’d be mad enough to actually go  _through_ with it.

“I’m not asking you. Go on, work to do.”

You go down on your knees in front of him and take his hip. He leans back against the wall and one hand goes to your nape.

“Wait,” you say, looking up at him. “For how long?”

He smirks down at you. “For as long as I deem necessary. Now get to it.”

***

Two days later you're sitting in the back room of the restaurant again. Well, Jim is sitting down, and you’re leaning against the wall behind him. You still can’t sit down without wincing.

This time Irene is remarkably more relaxed. She swoops in five minutes late, once more dressed in couture, and kisses your cheek. “Hello, you,” she coos.

Next to you, Jim coughs pointedly. They literally can’t be in the same room without trying to antagonise each other, it seems. It would be interesting if it wasn’t for the fact that you’re caught in the middle.

“So you're all set?” Jim asks once she sits down. He's agitated, even though he's hiding it well.

“Ready to go. There’ve already been a few people snooping around, and I sent my message to the palace this morning.” She smiles. “Talk about making a first impression.”

“The palace?” you ask before you can stop yourself. “Sorry, but are you blackmailing the royal family?”

“Not rea-ally, more like threatening,” Jim drawls. He looks over his shoulder at you. “Why, does it bother you? Does it go against your patriotic feelings? Is it because the Queen gave you a medal?”

You scoff. Your feelings about Queen-and-fucking-country are pretty well-documented.

“Or is it because they're family?” he adds.

“Sorry, what?” Irene says quickly. It’s like her ears perk up at the mention of royalty.

“Oh, didn't he tell you?” Jim says casually. “Sebastian's an aristocrat, two-hundredth in the line of succession or something. He's got a family crest and a Latin motto and everything, it's very impressive.” He smirks at you. “Isn't it, babe?”

“Wait,  _why_  are you blackmailing the royal family?” you ask, ignoring Jim. “I thought this was about the MOD?”

“It gives Holmes the Elder an excuse to bring in Holmes the Younger, while still keeping him in the dark,” Jim says. “He wouldn't get him involved directly.”

“And are you certain he will?” Irene asks.

“Almost definitely.” He tilts his chair back and closes his eyes. “You can expect a visit anytime soon. Make sure you impress him, won't you?”

“Oh, I will.”

“And don't forget his little friend. John,” he says, drawing out the vowel. “Sherlock's very fond of him. And the doctor's very protective of him in return.”

“Really?” she says, looking at you. “How odd. Well, if that’s all, I - ”

Jim's eyes snap open. "Do you have a safehouse?"

"You think that's necessary?" she asks, frowning.

He scrunches his nose up. "Maybe, maybe not, but to be on the safe side..."

"Of course. Well, I do have a place. Might be difficult to get there, though."

He waves at you. "Sebastian can give you a ride."

"Really?" She grins at you. "Will you wear gloves and a little cap?"

"Sorry," you say, poker-faced, "I'm not that into playing dress-up."

"Shame. Well, I need to get back to work. I have an investment banker to flog.” She gives you an inviting smile. “You're welcome to come along, if you want? He likes an audience.”

“Stop trying to steal Sebastian, it won't wo-ork,” Jim sings, staring at the ceiling. “Will it,  _darling_?”

“If you say so.” His shoulders are going tense. Pre-job nerves combined with his possessive streak, means it's going to be another rough night. Not that you  _mind_  Jim's particular brand of attention, but you'll be off your game physically for the next few days. He does like to leave bruises.

“Such a pity,” Irene says. She’s smirking, eyes flicking between the two of you. Jim drops his chair back and the front legs hit the floor with a loud bang.

“Like I said,” he says, “find your own.”

“I just might. Think he’s the submissive type, Sherlock?”

“Only one way to find out,” Jim says, and the accompanying smile is one of his nastiest.

Irene stands up and Jim follows suit. In her heels she’s almost as tall as he is, and they’re standing just a little too close to be socially acceptable.

“Have fun,” Jim purrs.

Irene leans even closer and tilts her head, lips only an inch from his mouth, and your breath hitches. “Oh, I will,” she murmurs.

And then she turns, and with one final wink for you she leaves the room. Jim watches her go with an amused smile.

“Well,” he says, looking over his shoulder at you. “This will be interesting.”

***

The next few days you’re on surveillance again. At least this time you can stay at home, in Jim’s study. But it’s still boring as hell, simply sitting around and watching everyone hanging around Baker Street. Waiting for the bomb to explode - a metaphorical one, this time. As far as you know, at least.

Jim has joined you, sitting on a chair next to yours, spinning around and sighing at the ceiling. “They’re taking their time.”

You hum and delicately put a hand on his thigh.

He shakes it off. “No. No sex in the surveillance room.”

“Seriously?” You’ve shagged on pretty much every horizontal surface in the flat, not to mention the walls and the shower. “Why?”

He keeps his eyes on the screen. “Because if you knock one of those servers over the entirety of South-East England loses all electricity.”

“Really?” you ask, fascinated. “So we can literally fuck the UK into blackout?”

“Yes, we can, and no, we’re not going to.” He smiles. “Not yet, anyway.”

“Fine. Still bored out of my mind, though.”

He leans back and the chair creaks dangerously. “You’ll just have to - ”

“Hold on.” You nod at one of the screens, where two men are ringing the doorbell. “Government?”

“The Palace.  _Finally._ ”

They disappear inside. After all the waiting you’ve done it feels very anti-climactic.

“So what happens now?” you ask.

“They’ll take Sherlock to Buckingham Palace, tell him what’s going on, and if I’m right - ”

“Which you are - ”

“- which I am, he’ll go straight to Adler afterwards. Which is where you’re going as well.”

You spin around on your chair to face him. “To play taxi service. You reckon she'll need it?"

He chews the inside of his cheek. "Depends on what exactly is on that phone. And besides, I need you there to keep an eye on things anyway.” His mouth thins. “We can’t afford mistakes, Seb.”

“Got it.”

He rolls his chair back and goes to his computer. You turn your attention back to the screen. As you’re watching, the two men appear again, flanking Sherlock Holmes, who is -

“Why is he wearing a sheet?”

“ _Is he_?” Jim swivels on his chair and rolls back. “Screencap. Now.”

You do as he says and manage to get a couple of decent shots, and even one close-up, before Holmes disappears into the car. In his sheet.

“Take the Audi,” Jim says. “I’ll keep you informed.” He grins. “Gosh, isn’t this fun?”

***

You pull up in an alleyway about two streets away from Irene’s flat. Far enough to be safe, close enough to be there quickly if needed. Anything could happen, after all. Adler might get shot, Holmes might bring the police, or there might be some third interested party you haven't heard of yet. Not even Jim is all-knowing when it comes to these things.

A couple of minutes after you’ve arrived a cab pulls up a couple of yards away and Holmes and Watson get out. They’re too busy arguing to see you, though. Holmes waves his arms and punches Watson, who tackles him to the ground.

Jim is convinced they’re still not fucking, but as you watch them rolling around and wrestling it’s hard to understand  _why_. They obviously can’t keep their hands off each other.

After a while they let go and head to Adler’s home. Not that long after your phone rings.

“Yeah?”

“CIA’s come to pay a visit,” Jim says. “Adler needs her safehouse after all, get ready to leave.”

“CIA? I thought this was - ” and then there are gunshots in the distance. “Did you hear that?”

“Yes. Keep an eye out for the police. The last thing we need now is for you to be pulled over for speeding.”

“I won’t.”

He disconnects. Maybe five minutes later a figure turns into the alleyway. You open your window and whistle, and she runs to you, going straight for the back seat.

“Hi,” you say when she gets in, and then you realise what's she's wearing. “Er...”

“Shut up and drive, darling, there’s a good boy,’ she says, a little breathless. She dips her hand into her pocket and her eyes widen. “Ooh, look, I've got his phone. This'll be fun.”

You start the engine and pull out of the alley. In the distance police sirens are wailing.

“There's a spare shirt in the back, if you're feeling exposed,” you say.

“Oh, I'm not.” She catches your eye in the rear-view mirror. “Am I making you uncomfortable?”

“ _Uncomfortable_ isn't the right word for it.”

You see her smirk in the mirror. “'Thanks for the pictures, by the way. Although he looks better in the flesh.”

“He isn't the only one.”

She laughs, and then she moans, loudly.

You blink and turn around. “Er…”

“Eyes on the road, darling,” she says easily. She presses one last button on the phone and puts it back in the pocket of what looks like Sherlock Holmes' pretentious coat.

“Did you steal his coat?” you ask.

“Borrowed it for a bit. It’s a bit chilly to wander around naked, don’t you think?”

“Which begs the question  _why_ you were naked in the first place.” You stop in front of a red light and look over your shoulder again.

She stretches. That coat doesn’t do that much to protect her modesty. “Getting his attention. And giving him no handy little clues to decipher. It worked quite well, I have to say.”

You turn back and shift into gear. “So what was the shooting about?”

“Sherlock, trying to get attention.” She frowns. “The CIA came to say hello.”

“Yeah, Jim said.”

“Seems this isn't just a British matter.” She slides the coat off her shoulders and puts on your extra shirt. “Can you get this back to his place? I’ve left him a little present on his phone.”

“Sure, no problem.” Although... “Wait. When you say  _present_ , are we talking toxins or explosives or something?”

“No-o, just a little reminder. Nothing dangerous. Well. Depending on your definition of _dangerous_ , of course.” She smiles and leans back with a sigh. “I have to say I'm glad I hired you. It makes things a great deal more comfortable.”

You smile. “You're not paying us, remember?”

“Yes, Jim is doing all of this out of the goodness of his heart, isn't he? It's just around the corner.”

You pull up in front of an unremarkable terraced house. Irene leans forward on the seat. “Tell Jim thanks. Sherlock's a lot more fun than I anticipated.”

You take in her glittering eyes, the triumphant smirk, and there’s something about it.... “Don't get too involved,” you say impulsively.

She blinks in surprise. “Darling, it's not me who's the love-sick puppy.” She leans a bit further and pecks you on the lips. “Have fun with your psychopath,” she says with an impish smile.

“And you with yours.”

She slams the door and gets quickly inside the house, before anyone notices a woman dressed in nothing but a man's shirt crossing the streets.

You call Jim. “She's safe.”

“Good. And now we wait.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Next chapter will be up somewhere between Wednesday and Friday.
> 
>  **I did wonder how that floppy-haired twat got elected** : Boris Johnson, mayor of London. Has been described to me as “Idiot with too much power" He's basically a bit of clown who _somehow_ got elected, although that might also have something to do with the fact that he's another member of the old-boys club who all went to the same (very expensive) school together.
> 
>  **a hung parliament** : After the 2010 elections the Conservatives were the largest party but they still had too little votes for a majority, so they had to join up with the Liberal-Democrats in the first hung parliament since '74.


	9. The Web

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which Jim Conceives A Plan That Takes Them From Switzerland To Australia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for very dubious consent (and reference to noncon), explicit m/m sex, D/s, graphic violence, bondage, mental health issues, discussion of homophobia, torture, murder, gore

**9\. The Web**

_I come along but I don't know where you're taking me_  
 _I shouldn't go, but you're wrenching dragging shaking me_  
 _Turn off the sun pull the stars from the sky_  
 _The more I give to you, the more I die_  
 _(Nine Inch Nails – Perfect Drug)_

A few weeks after Irene’s spectacular getaway you come home to the sound of a harpsichord. You pause in the doorway, hand on the doorknob.

Music is one of the more reliable Geiger counters for Jim's mood: Stravinsky when he's bored, catchy pop tunes when someone is about to get seriously hurt, Strauss when a big plan is in full swing, or the 1812 overture, especially the bit with the cannons.

 _The Well-Tempered Clavier_ is pretty much the equivalent of Defcon One.

You close the door and hang your coat up, careful not to make too much noise.

The last time you heard Bach, Jim didn't speak for three days. On the fourth day he accosted you on the way to the bathroom and rattled off a convoluted plan involving a revolution in some small African country, the director of the FSB, and Lehman Brothers.

If you had to hazard a guess, you'd say it's got something to do with structure. Neat, ordered, rational Bach. And Jim has always liked his mathematics.

You walk to the living room in your socks. Jim is lying on the carpet, hands behind his head, ankles crossed. He's wearing house clothes, track bottoms and an old grey t-shirt that is, in fact, yours, and it makes him look even more like a twelve-year old than usual.

His eyes are closed, and he doesn't give any sign that he heard you come in, so you make your way to the sofa and get back to Hemingway. You have to do  _something_ to pass the time, after all, and Jim’s library is big enough to keep you occupied for a long time.

About a dozen pages later you glance up. Jim has moved a little closer to the sofa and now he’s watching you, his expression strangely calculating. He used to look at you like that a lot in those first few months when you started to work directly for him, like he was collecting data on you. But it doesn’t make sense that he’s doing it  _now,_  he knows you inside out - possibly literally.

You raise an eyebrow. “Should I be worried?”

A second or two of expressionless silence, and then he grins wide and flops back down onto the floor. “Probably not.”

“That's reassuring,” you say dryly. You put your book down and lean forward, elbows resting on your knees. He looks peaceful now, content. Satisfied. “I don't suppose you're willing to share?”

“Am I ever?” he says dreamily.

You snort and put your foot on his stomach.

The thing is, most of the time he  _is_ willing to share. He likes going over his plans, and seeing your reaction to them, because, well, he’s never anything less than breathtaking when he’s like that.

He curls a hand around your ankle, not pulling, just resting there. “It's gonna be a big one, this one. You'll see.” His thumb strokes the jutting bone of your ankle.

“They're all big ones,” you say.

His thumb digs in suddenly, just beneath the bone, and you twitch reflexively. You try to pull away and he tightens his grip, nails pressing into your skin. “The biggest one. The Big Bang.”

He pulls and you slide off the couch and straddle him, knees on either side of his hips. You put your hands on the carpet, on either side of his head. “Yeah? Who’s going to get blown up, then?”

"Everyone," he says, laughing, and then he pulls you down.

***

When you come back from the shops the day after, Bach has been replaced by something that sounds like Vivaldi, all hyperactive violins, and Jim himself is nowhere to be seen. You drop the groceries in the kitchen and go to the living room. He has taken down the Francis Bacon - good, that thing gave you chills - and the once cream wall is covered in writing, one of Jim’s incomprehensible spider diagrams full of strange symbols and percentages.

Scribbling on the walls. It’s practically rule one of being insane, that. It just screams  _mentally unstable_ , and the first time you saw him at it you came close to getting out a straightjacket. Now, well, now you look at the impenetrable scrawl and all you think is  _Jim’s planning again_.

Your definition of  _normal_  has long been ripped to shreds.

Most of the diagram is in code, but you picked up enough to decipher bits of it. The squiggle in the middle is London, you know that, and you’re pretty sure that the one in the lower corner is your name.

“Don’t touch it, it isn’t finished yet,” Jim says from the bedroom.

“Wasn’t going to.”

He walks to the wall and you step back, cautiously. Planning means you've got to watch your step around him, and he already looks tense.

“I just heard from Newcastle, by the way," you say, watching him. "They say the police has been sniffing around again.”

And it isn’t the first time either. Ever since that thing at the pool the scrutiny seems to have intensified. Like the tentative first steps of a witch hunt.

“I know.” He taps the marker against his chin. “We'll need to disappear for a while, just to be on the safe side. I was hoping to avoid this.” He crosses something out and steps back. “I hate Switzerland.”

“Switzerland?”

“Yes, Switzerland. I have a house there.”

“Are you  _Swiss_?” you ask, fascinated. The Dublin accent is the one he defaults to when he's alone, but that doesn't mean anything. He could be South African or Norwegian, for all you know – he speaks both languages well enough to fool a native speaker.

He throws you a thoroughly unimpressed look.

“Just asking,” you say, raising your hands. “So when do we leave?”

“ASAP, Seb. As soon as possible.” His lips are thinning, fingers cramping around the marker. An explosion waiting to happen.

Which means there are two options. Either you leave him alone until he’s got himself under control again – and judging by the amount of twitches and tics that could take a long time – or you do something to take the edge off. The second solution is probably the most efficient one. And the most fun, too.

You step up unnoticed while his eyes are drifting back to the diagram and close your hand gently around his wrist. His tendons twitch beneath your fingers.

Fun, yes, but also a bit like walking a tightrope.

“Seb,” he says, almost plaintive.

You pull and twist, slam him face-first into the wall and wrench his arm behind his back, not putting on enough pressure to dislocate it but coming damn close. He hisses through his teeth and something deep inside of you rears its head.

Jim isn’t the only sadist in the room.

He has put his left hand against the wall to brace himself, and you cover it with your own, lacing your fingers together. “Go on then,” you whisper in his ear. “Say you don't want this.” You increase the pressure on his arm, making him rise to his toes to keep his shoulder from popping out of joint, and grind your other hand into his. The little bones of his hand make a nasty cracking noise.

He  _whines_ , a high needy noise that goes straight to your cock, because that’s the sound of his precious control slipping from him. You let go, grab the scruff of his neck and all but throw him to the bedroom. You slam the door closed and pounce before he can get back up again. Don’t give him time to start overthinking, don’t lose skin contact for more than a few seconds, and never lose sight of his reactions, that’s the only way this can work.

You straddle him and pin his arms to the bed when he reaches for you, hard enough to hurt. He's going to make you pay for this when he snaps out of it, but right now you don't fucking  _care_. You go straight for the throat, retaliation for all those bruises he's left on you. He bucks under you and makes another one of those little desperate noises, and you wriggle your thigh between his legs and press up. He throws his head to the side, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Look at me,” you say, pulling back from his throat. He doesn't, too lost in sensation to pay much attention to what you're saying. Well, fuck that, you’re in charge here. You take his jaw and force him to face you. “ _Look at me,”_ you snarl, and he does, pupils huge and dark.

You’re panting. He’s panting. You can feel his heart racing just underneath his jaw, but he doesn’t move, one of his hands still held to the bed, the other loosely around your wrist. His eyes stay on yours, not even blinking.

He looks away first.

You hop off the bed and practically tear your clothes off. On the bed Jim is doing the same. Which is reassuring to see, ‘cause you have no idea what’s going on in his head right now, and no matter how much you want to tear him to incoherent bits you have no actual desire to  _rape_  the bastard.

His heels scrabble on the sheets in his hurry to get his trousers off. Your eyes fall on the pale skin of his stomach, his sharp hipbones, the way his muscles tense when he raises his hips. There’s something mesmerizing about his frantic movements. Animal-like, but then again, this whole thing is, bared throats and dominating eye contact and the heady feeling of having someone pinned beneath you. Predator and prey.

He kicks his trousers off the bed and when he reaches for his shirt his eyes accidentally meet yours. He freezes, looking up at where you’re looming over him, like a terrified rabbit.

“Get  _on_ with it,” you growl, and he looks away again and tears his shirt off. You take the lube from the drawer and crawl back on top of him. The bottle is almost empty, but you manage to squirt a sizeable amount on your fingers. He'll need it, it's not like you have the patience to go slow and, you suspect, neither does he.

It's walking a _very_ thin line. One wrong move could make him snap, and if he snaps now you're dead.

So, back or on his knees? Knees would be easier, but you want to see him, want to see his face when you  _take_ him. And want him to see you too, cause you’re damned if you’re going to let him forget that it’s  _you_ who’s doing this to him.

You hoist his leg over your shoulder. He bends easily enough, flexible little bugger, and you’re strong enough to keep supporting your weight. You force two slicked-up fingers inside of him and he sort of convulses, reaching up and raking his short nails down your back. You close your hand loosely around his throat and he goes still again, shaking.

You pull your fingers out and start to push in. He swallows - his adam’s apple bobs underneath your fingers - but you really can’t bring yourself to be anything approaching gentle. It must hurt, of course it hurts, he doesn’t do this often enough to get used to it and he’s nowhere near prepared enough, and his whole body is shaking with the pain of it. But you know exactly how much he can take and you're not crossing any lines here, not yet. Besides, he's already hard, so some part of him enjoys this. _Needs_ this.

You keep your hand on his throat, a reminder he can’t ignore. Once you're fully inside his eyes flutter closed. Nice try. You squeeze in warning and he opens them again, still shaking, hands raising feebly. You pin his wrist back to the mattress with your free hand and lean down, bite his lip. His other hand scratches at your neck, trying to pull you closer. Desperate, eager, completely at your mercy, and that thought alone is almost enough to make you come.

You pull out and slam back in. His heel presses hard into your back. You grab his knee and shove it down against the bed, taking whatever little leverage he had away from him. You could pound him like a ragdoll, take what you want without giving a second's thought to him. It’s tempting, immensely so, and he would let you.

You reach for his cock instead. The sound he makes in reaction is barely human.

You know all of his little tells and signs, the way he bites his lip just a bit too hard, his fingers twitching and curling, all that means he's close so you slide your hand down and squeeze the base of his cock. He sobs in frustration, far beyond words, not even able to beg.

You stop moving and slowly let go, put your hand flat on his chest, above his heart. His eyes are wet and he's trembling like he has a fever but even though his hands are free he doesn't move, looking at you like you're – like you’re all that's real.

It’s not an image you’re going to forget any time soon.

You pick up pace again. You're close yourself, and you get your hand back to his cock at exactly the right moment and the feeling of him clamping down convulsively when he comes is enough to push you over the edge yourself, in a white-hot triumphant surge of pleasure.

You collapse on top of him and he lays a still-shaking hand on your shoulder. Simultaneous orgasm. Damn, you've got good at this.

The music is still playing in the background. The sheets are rumpled, your nose is pressed close against Jim’s neck so all you can smell is sweat and sex and a lingering trace of his aftershave, and you didn’t bother with a condom so you could probably use a shower, but you feel divine.

It won't last, though. Any second now he's going to snap out of it and then you're going to have to face the consequences, whatever they may be. You _have_ got a sort of unspoken agreement with him about this, and you know what you can get away with and what you can't, but...

You can feel the exact moment he comes back to himself. He gives a sort of quivering sigh, and the muscles of his stomach go tense.

“Get off,” he mumbles.

You pull out and roll off before he can get nasty. He sits up almost immediately, hands folded. His shoulders are tense, face closed off. He touches his mouth, where either he or you broke the skin, a tiny bleeding tear. His throat is red from your hand, and if he would stand up you would see your come on his thighs. He’s  _marked_ , and it must be harsh to see the results of his moment of weakness now he’s back to usual.

“D'you want me to leave?” you ask cautiously.

He looks at you. The defences are up again. It's strange, seeing his usual control again when only minutes ago you reduced him to a sobbing bundle of want. It's like they're different people.

He smiles slowly and pats your thigh. “No.”

You breathe out in relief. “Good.” Not that you were that worried - it’s  _you_ , he knows he’s safe with you - but he is and will always be unpredictable.

You get up and stand in front of him. “Shower?”

He cracks his neck and feels absently at his shoulder, the one you almost dislocated.

“Come on,” you say, offering a hand up. He takes your wrist and you pull him off the bed.

***

The journey to Switzerland is hell. Jim is edgy even in the airport, leering at the off-duty stewardesses and scaring the children brave enough to come near him, until you roll your eyes and drag him to the nearest restroom, block the door with a mop and let him fuck you over the sinks. That leaves him peaceful?  for a while, and you thank whatever gods are listening that the flight only lasts an hour and a half, but it's still a six-hour drive from the airport to his place. At first it’s bearable, but he keeps getting more fidgety. After about two hours you pull over at a mostly abandoned petrol station, drag him to the back of the parking lot and spread your arms in invitation, saying “Go on, then.”

A couple of minutes later you get back into the car sporting a bleeding nose, a split lip and something that feels like a bruised rib, but at least Jim has calmed down a bit.

It doesn't last, unfortunately. The twitching starts up again about five minutes after he makes you leave the motorway for a small twisty snow-covered deathtrap masquerading as a road. It’s frustrating, because you’re _dying_ of curiosity. Not once has he mentioned anything about a house here, nothing in the five-odd years you’ve known him. But asking questions now is – well, a phenomenally bad idea.

“Left here.”

You slow down and look around. There’s something that looks like a goat’s track on the left. “What, _here_?”

“No, down the ravine. Yes, _here_.”

You turn left as carefully as you can, and even so there’s a scary moment where you break and you just keep sliding on. But the track widens to a proper road a couple of yards in, luckily. You follow the twists and turns, up and down, past a large waterfall and a couple snow-covered meadows.

And then you turn the corner and see Jim’s _house_. It’s fucking huge, too small to be a proper mansion but too large to be anything else, really. “That’s yours?”

Jim rubs his forehead. “Sebastian, stop asking obvious questions, it’s giving me a headache.”

“Blaming that on me, are you?”

He glares at you and you get out of the car before he can get aggressive again. You prod at your lip with your tongue. The bleeding has stopped. Your ribcage still aches, though. You get the bags and follow Jim inside.

You whistle through your teeth when you enter the hall and spot the large double staircase. “This brings back memories,” you say, faintly amused. It makes you wonder what happened to your own ancestral home. Probably full of dust covers and tourists by now.

“Make yourself useful and start a fire in the sitting room,” Jim snaps. He starts up the stairs. “In the  _fireplace_ ,” he adds pointedly.

Places like this always bring out the arsonist in you.

You drop the bags in the hallway and go looking for wood. There’s a huge pile of logs round the back, stacked at least six feet high. The whole pile is covered in cobwebs and dust, fuck knows how long they’ve been there. But they’re still dry, so they’ll do fine.

You load up a basket and go back inside, opening doors at random. It’s a good thing you know these kind of places: anyone else would have probably got the sitting room confused with the drawing room or the study. There’s even a music room, with a grand piano that’s horribly out of tune – and if even you can hear that it’s got to be extreme.

All the rooms have that chilly unlived-in feel you get when these places are abandoned for a while. Although everything is still in pristine condition, nothing more serious than a bit of dust, and not even that much. The only possible explanation is that someone keeps this place in order, but who the hell would Jim trust enough to take care of this all?

The floorboards creak above your head. So Jim is still upstairs, doing – doing god knows what. You leave him to it and finally find the sitting room. It looks like it could come straight from a catalogue, or the set of period-movie, all dark polished wood and antique furniture and a Persian carpet. And, of course, a massive imposing fireplace.

You put the basket down, go to your knees and start laying a fire.

It still isn’t quite clear to you what you’re doing here. Hiding, as far as you’ve gathered, but Jim also mentioned something about preparation. Building a safety net, he called it, which begs the question whether he’s intending to fall.

You feed a couple of twigs to the flames. You’re not worried, not really, but, well, you’d prefer it if he opened up a bit more. But he will, in time. He never keeps you in the dark that long, especially not when it’s about important stuff.

The fire is merrily crackling away. You add one of the bigger logs. For a few moments nothing happens, and then it slowly starts to smoke and smoulder.

The door creaks open just when the flames catch and the tiny fire turns into a blaze. You look over your shoulder and grin. “Quite the dramatic entrance.”

Jim slams the door closed and goes straight to one of the stuffed chairs, no reply. Christ, is he still on edge? You’d hoped the worst would be over once you were where you’re supposed to be, but it seems to have only got worse.

He runs his hand over his face and sighs. “Check out the generator,” he says. Or orders, more accurately. “It’ll get dark soon.”

“We’ll light candles, it’ll be romantic,” you say, leering. But once again, no reply apart from a steely silence, so you slink out of the room and go find the generator.

The generator is ready to use, just like the firewood: several cans of diesel stored in the back of the shed, the generator itself shiny and rust-free. Engineering was never a strong point but it isn’t exactly rocket science, and you manage to switch it on without any problems. A low hum sounds, and when you get back inside and try the light switch the massive chandelier lights up in a haze of molten gold. Job well done.

You glance at the door of the sitting room. Jim will want to be alone, if he’s feeling like this. Would he mind if you looked around a bit? Well, if he did mind, he should have said. You leave the door closed and head up the stairs instead, full of curiosity. It is, after all, the first time you come into contact with anything connected to his past, and it fascinates you.

Not that there’s much, at least a first sight. More books, including some that look like antiques, kept behind glass. Binders full of handwritten notes, some in that same round childish hand you remember from Holmes’ file, but all in code and therefore unreadable. A few paintings hidden away in a smaller bedroom, probably genuine.

And, tucked away in a storage cupboard, a cardboard box filled with pictures. Some of them have been ruined by water damage, others have some highly questionable stains, but there are a few that are still clear. A thin woman with big curly hair, holding a toddler. A class picture, with a tiny nearly-unidentifiable Jim hidden in the back row. And a school picture, over a hundred boys, where some of the faces have been carefully blacked out.

You brush your thumb over the picture, entranced. A teenaged Jim, now there’s a scary thought. Would he have been plotting deaths already, when they took that picture? Would he have killed Carl Powers yet?

You put the box back exactly the way you found it and go back downstairs to the sitting room. Jim is crouching in front of the fireplace, swaying slightly, staring into the blaze. Fire, like most things that can be considered health hazards – guns, tall buildings, poison – always causes this reaction: wide-eyed, almost childish fascination.

You sit down next to him and carefully pull his hand away. His skin is hot and dry, an inch closer and he'd have got blisters. He doesn’t react, barely seems to notice you’re there, so you wrap your arms around your legs, lean your chin on your knee, and watch him, waiting. Guarding.

***

You wake up with one hell of a crick in your neck. You open your eyes, blink at the ceiling. Wood. Beams. Strange.

“Why didn’t we go up to the bed?” Jim asks from somewhere near to you.

You roll your head. You’re lying on the carpet, it seems, and Jim is sprawling awkwardly in one of the stuffed chairs. It isn’t the first time you’ve fallen asleep where you sat – if there’s one thing you’ve learned in the SAS it’s how to fall asleep quickly in even the most uncomfortable of positions -and Jim's brooding often leaves him so exhausted he just drops off without bothering to relocate. 

You sit up and crack your neck. “Too lazy?”

He snorts and slides out of his chair, with a pained face. “Come on. Bathroom.”

***

Crack. Fizzle. Sparks.

You give your razor a dejected little shake. No, definitely broken. And of course it had to happen while you’re in almost complete isolation – the nearest village is at least an hour ride, and it was tiny, they won’t have electric razors for sale there.

You run a hand over the stubble and look in the mirror. “Do you mind if I look a bit scruffy for the next few days?” you ask as Jim passes behind you, scrubbing at his wet hair.

“Yes, I mind,” he says irritably. “Why would you?”

“My razor’s broken.”

“So? Use mine.” He bends down and rifles through a bag, pulling out random bottles and tubes. Honestly, he’s got more toiletries than the average woman.

“I would slit my own throat if I used that damn thing.”

He gives you a mocking look. “You can use every possible weapon imaginable but you can't even shave?”

“Never had to. That's what modern technology is for, Jim, you don't use a horse and carriage anymore 'cause you've got  _cars_ now.”

He snorts, unamused. Still on edge. “And look where it's got you.”

You shrug. “Straight razors break as well, you know. Anyway, you'll just have to - ”

“I will have to do nothing,” he says, something sharp in his tone. He takes his poncy shaving brush and hands it to you.

“I told you, I can't,” you say. You don't really feel like making a fool of yourself and cutting up your entire face while Jim is watching, even if he's -

“But I can.” He raises his eyebrows and the penny drops.

“Oh. So you're going to - ”

“Yes. Are you waiting for something?”

You shake your head. He sighs and dips his hand into his bag again before disappearing, leaving you standing in front of the mirror.

You might not be able to use a straight razor - at least, not for the purpose it was intended for - but you know how this bit works, you've seen Jim do it more times than you can count. Once your face is covered with white foam you go back to the bedroom. It’s odd, being smothered in a smell that you uniquely associate with Jim.

He pushes you down on the bed and goes to his knees between your legs, putting him roughly at eye-level with you. He puts the fingers of his right hand delicately on your jaw and snaps the razor open with the other hand, and your eyes go immediately to the glinting blade. It's a weapon, after all, and you know from personal experience exactly how sharp he keeps it.

He tilts your head sideways and puts it just beneath your ear. “Scared?” he asks softly. Dangerous mood.

“No,” you answer when he's swept the blade down. “Why should I be?”

“Because I have something very sharp against your throat.” Another swipe of the blade. It makes a noise, shaving like that, very different from the buzz of your usual razor. You can practically hear the  _ting_  of the blade.

“D'you want me to count how many times you've had your teeth around my cock?” you say in between scrapes. “Cause I don't remember you getting all threatening about that.”

“There's a thought.” He carefully turns your head and starts on the other side. “Did it never cross your mind? That I might just  _bite down_?”

“It did. Didn't stop me, though.”

“No, it wouldn't.”

He's taking his time, more than he does when he's shaving himself, and it's getting a little irritating. “Why do you do this any-  _mmf-_ ”

“Shush,” he says, fingers on your mouth. “Don't move or accidents might happen.”

You glare at him and he smiles, a smile you always thought of as knife-edged and oh how fucking  _appropriate_ that is now.

He puts the razor just below your cheekbone and draws it down. “I do this because some things are worth taking their time for. Like seduction, or revenge. Destroying someone.” He puts his knuckles underneath your chin and smiles again. “Or sex. Don't complain, Sebastian, I know you can be patient.”

And he’s not just talking about the damn shave, is he? Be patient, don’t ask questions, trust that he knows what he’s doing. Follow blindly.

He pauses, the edge of the razor against your jugular. You can't say anything 'cause talking means movement of your throat, which wouldn’t be very wise right now. He looks at you, expression uncharacteristically serious.

_You trust me?_

You blink and for a second you can see exactly how it would happen, the pressure of the blade, severing the carotid, the way the blood would spout all over his pale shirt and hands and face. And then you blink again and it's gone and all you see are Jim's dark eyes. You tilt your head back slowly, give him access.

_I always trust you._

He carefully slides the razor upwards, over your adam's apple and to your chin. “There,” he says, finishing with a little flick of his wrist. “That wasn't so hard, was it?”

You give him a sardonic look but refrain from comment.

***

The next day you go to the shop in the nearest village and buy a pack of disposable safety razors.

***

He doesn’t cheer up over the next few days. He either goes to one of the rooms and  _locks the door_ , as if you would try to break in otherwise, or he stomps around complaining loudly and trying to provoke you into a fight. The nights are… interesting too, to the point where you put a first-aid kit underneath the bed, just in case.

When this sort of thing happens in London - and it does, it has - you give him space, try to avoid him until he calls you back. But there’s no avoiding him here.

Although you do try. There isn't a room left you haven't spent some time in, but Jim keeps barging in and throwing you out, no matter where you are. You’d start to think he’s doing it on purpose. More provoking, maybe, although he isn’t –

Wait. You double back. There’s a small, unobstrusive door underneath the massive staircase, one you haven’t noticed before. It opens unto a narrow flight of metal stairs, and your first thought is  _Bluebeard_.

_There is one room you must never go..._

But fuck that, he has mentioned nothing about places being out of bounds. You switch on the lights and go down the metal stairs. Downstairs it's dark, but you get the impression of a large empty space, a strange echo in the distance. Less tower full of dead wives, more batcave.

After a bit of groping around you find a switch. The lights flicker on, one by one, revealing a cavernous room, filled with various pieces of exercise equipment.

A basement gym. Why the hell would Jim need something like this? He  _hates_ any form of physical activity.

You explore, footsteps harsh against the concrete floor. Weights and a treadmill, a pile of mats, one of those massive multi-option training benches that looks like a medieval torture instrument. Ropes and a pair of rings hanging from the ceiling, several large mirrors and a bar, like a sodding ballet classroom. A smallish swimming pool behind a glass wall at the far end of the room. And next to that something that looks a whole fucking lot like a communal shower, tiles on the floor and several showerheads sticking out from the wall.

You put your hands on your hips, turn around. It's absurd, completely unnecessary. Even if Jim had felt the need to exercise at some point in his youth, which you doubt, it’s still over-the-top. More suited to training an entire squad than one individual.

But it does give you something to do. You jump up and catch the rings, pull up slowly. It's a lot more difficult than it used to be, but you're not twenty anymore, are you?

You drop down and head for the threadmill.

***

Jim doesn’t look up at first when you enter the bedroom. But then he sniffs, and his nose wrinkles. “You  _reek_.” He looks up and gives you a onceover. “What have you been doing?”

“Working out.” You pull your sweat-soaked t-shirt off and lob it at the bed. Jim recoils, his face a picture of fastidious disgust. “Might as well do something useful to pass the time.”

“You went to the basement,” he says, still staring at your t-shirt.

“Yeah. Wasn’t I supposed to?”

He turns away. No reply. God, you’re getting sick of this. You ignore him and take your shoes and socks off.

“Useful?” he says at last.

“Well, yeah.” You pause, thumbs at the waistband of your jeans. “All that running around and jumping over fences you make me do… Bloke’s got to keep fit to keep that up. And weightlifting comes in handy too, of course.” You smile. “Wouldn’t want to drop you when I’ve got you up against the wall, would I?”

Something flickers over his face, a ghost of his usual amused smile. “As long as you don't overexert yourself.”

“I won’t. I’m going to take a shower, want to join me?”

He shakes his head. “Not finished here yet. You go ahead.”

“Right,” and you go to the bathroom, feeling a tiny bit disappointed.

***

That night you wake up to a loud pained groan. Still half-asleep, you throw your leg over Jim’s, your arm around his waist, and fall asleep again with him trembling against you, his hand around your forearm.

***

You spend a lot of time in the gym, the next few days. It’s the one place Jim doesn’t come, and besides, you love this. Forgot how much, even. There’s nothing quite like the burn of muscles, your heart racing, your breath heaving, hungry for every gulp of fresh air. It’s exhilarating and relaxing and grounding all at the same time.

You push the weight slowly back up, every muscle in your upper body screaming with the effort of it, but the triumph of lifting it far makes up for that.

Footsteps echo through the room. You turn your head to see Jim walking in, grinning widely for the first time in weeks.

“You're looking cheerful,” you say, putting the weight back on the hooks.

“Just got some interesting news. But nevermind that. You look scrumptious like that, you know, all sweaty, muscles straining.”

“Scrumptious,” you repeat dubiously. It’s hardly the first time he's got creative with pet names and compliments though, and you couldn’t care less what he calls you. You run your hands over your face and look back at him, watch him lick his lips. “What?”

“I'm weighing the pros and cons of fucking you on that bench,” he informs you, crossing the room at a leisurely pace and undoing his tie.

“Wouldn't be very comfortable.”

“No, but on the other hand, it's here, so...”

He swings his leg over, puts his knee on your chest and looks down at you. Definitely looking upbeat. And what the hell, you’ve shagged in stranger places.

In one quick movement you grab the back of his knees, pulling him off balance. He flails, only just managing to catch himself on the side on the bench, and before he can voice his indignation you get a hand around his neck and pull him down for a kiss. He gets one knee between yours, and you bend your leg so he's got something to lean against.

Your free hand finds his arse, and he makes a noise and slips again, losing whatever support he had and landing with an  _oomph_  on top of you, nearly falling off. You tighten an arm around his waist just in time to prevent him from slipping.

“This doesn't appear to be working,” he says in your ear.

“Shower?” you suggest.

He nips at your earlobe. “I knew there was a reason I kept you around.”

You put your hands on his waist and lift him off. You both start taking off clothes in the way to the shower room, leaving a trail of t-shirts and socks. Halfway there you pass the floor-length mirrors, and you pause as you notice your reflection.

You haven’t been entirely bruise-free for the last four years, but even by those standards it’s impressive. Your entire side is mottled dark blue and purple and green, and then there are the various scratches and bites and burns, all in different stages of healing. The visible consequences of Jim being restless for several weeks now.

You turn around and try to look at your back in the mirror. There are scratches pretty much everywhere, ‘cause Jim might keep his nails short but he likes to claw at you whenever you end up on top. And the back of your thighs are a picture too, for obvious reasons.

It’s not like you  _mind_ this kind of pain, but seeing it all spread out is a little -

“Admiring my handiwork?”

Jim is smirking at you, hands on his hips, stripped to his underwear. He’s got his own share of bruises and bites as well. Not quite as spectacular as yours, but still, it’s a nice reminder that at least some of it goes both ways.

“You’ve done your best, I’ll grant you that,” you say, turning back to the mirror. “Bloody hell, I look as if I’ve been run over by a train.”

“And unless you want some pretty new ones added to the collection, I suggest you start moving.”

You shake your head - as much fun baiting Jim can be, you’re not really in the mood - and go to the shower. Jim pulls his boxers off and tosses them casually over his shoulder. You turn on the taps and stand under the stream, tip your head back and let the water wash away the sweat on your face.

Jim comes up behind you and twists you around, hand hooking around your neck and pushing down. You take the hint and drop to your knees in front of him, but he moves too quickly, shoving his cock down your throat without giving you time to prepare and you choke, almost bite down in surprise. Luckily you manage to suppress that particular reflex, otherwise things could have got very  _interesting_.

You glare up at him, coughing. You’ve got used to a lot over the last few years, but your gag-reflex is still in perfect working order.

He smiles angelically and traces a finger over the still-sore skin around your eye. “A bit too fast, was I?” He reaches for your nape again and puts his other hand under your jaw, tilting your head up.

“Open your mouth for me, sugar,” he drawls, drawing his thumb over your bottom lip. You do and he guides his cock between your lips, almost carefully. His hand on your nape slides up to fist in your hair and you look up to see him tilt his head back, eyes squeezed shut.

You flatten your tongue and swallow, and have the pleasure of hearing him whimper. God, but you love it when he does this, allowing you to do what you want instead of him taking control of every single damn thing you do.

You curl your upper lip back and use just the tiniest hint of teeth.

“Careful, love,” he gasps from above, tightening his hand in your hair in warning. You hum in affirmation and his breath hitches. You let go of his hip and reach down, intending to take matters in your own hands, literally, but he catches your wrist before you can reach down.

“Ah-ah, sweetie, that would be cheating,” he chides.

You pull off and glare up at him. “Yeah? Well, you forgot to tell me the rules.”

“Did I? Then you'll have to improvise, won't you?” His hand returns to your hair and pushes your head back to his cock. You wrap your hand around the base and brush your thumb lightly across the underside. He growls in reply - no gentleness or teasing this time. ‘Cause he’s in no way predictable when it comes to what he likes, every time is different.  _Improvising_  is something you’ve got very good at.

You look up from beneath your lashes. His hand is grasping at the rack, knuckles white. You slide your hand down from his hip and you feel the tell-tale quivering of muscles in the back of his thighs. For all that he can’t shut up during sex, he’s actually a pretty quiet fuck when it comes to involuntary noises. All you have to go on is body language.

You dig your fingernails into his flesh and he throws his head back, tendons standing out. He’s beautiful like this - may sound fucking sappy but he  _is_ , there’s nothing in the world like his face when he’s on the verge of losing it. Made even better by the fact that it’s  _you_ who’s doing this, because you’re sure, absolutely one hundred percent sure, that there isn’t anyone else who’d he even consider doing this with.

You pull back a bit and suck, and he comes, not with his usual strangled curse but with something that sounds almost like a sigh.

He pulls you off gently – that's unusual, normally he gets a little aggressive after sex – and you spit, watching his come swirl down the drain. Millions of baby-Moriarties, lost to the world forever. Might be a good thing, the world wouldn’t be able to survive Jim’s spawn.

He's looking at the water as well, but his hand is still in your hair so he can't have forgotten you.

“Can I get up?” you ask peevishly. “This floor isn't doing my knees any favours.”

He pushes his wet hair back from his forehead and looks down at you, eyes landing on your own straining erection, which by his express instructions hasn't been touched and is now making its unhappiness with the state of affairs very clear. The corner of his mouth turns up.

He looks back up at the shelf. “Can you use shampoo as lube?”

“I'm not in a special hurry to find out.”

“Spoilsport. Fine, up and back against the wall, Seb.”

You do as you’re told, the tiles cold against your shoulder blades, and watch him suspiciously. He's dangerous when he's playful like this, and you're half expecting him to pull a knife or a blowtorch out of nowhere. Instead he kneels down, mirroring your earlier pose.

You blink down at him in confusion, and then his mouth is on your cock and your head hits the wall behind you a little harder than is comfortable because  _he never does this_. Not that he doesn't use his mouth – he does, all the time, calling him orally fixated wouldn't be an exaggeration – but you're always flat on your back when he does, he's always on top. Not that you ever forget who's in charge here, but now he's there, on his knees, right in front of you, and there's no way you can look at him like that and not think  _submissive_ and it's messing with your head.

“You're doing this on purpose, aren't you?” you pant.

“Are you asking me if I'm accidentally sucking you off?”

“You know what I – Jesus  _Christ,”_ because hey, guess what, Jim can deepthroat too. Your hand tightens convulsively in his hair and he digs his nails in your buttocks in warning.

You let go hurriedly. “Fine, no hair pulling, sorry.”

Sometimes you forget how really fucking  _good_  he is at this, a side-effect of his ability to read people. He reacts to everything you do: you moan and he shifts, you gasp and he goes faster. The slightest movement or noise from you and he knows  _exactly_  what it means.

He leans back and runs his hand through his hair, looking speculatively at the general area of your crotch, as if he can't decide what to do next.

“Why are you doing this?” you ask, breathing hard.

His eyes cut quickly to yours. “Yours is not to reason why, Sebastian.”

You laugh. “Tennyson?  _Now?”_

“Would you prefer me to quote someone else?” he asks innocently. His eyes are glittering.

“I would  _prefer_  if you used your mouth for something else than stealing dead men's words.”

“Oh, well, in that case,” and he swallows you down again.

Your head falls back and your hand goes automatically to his hair again only to stop halfway when you remember his nails. This  _really_  isn't the right moment to challenge him, so you follow his earlier example and close your fingers around the wire rack, just to have something to hang on to.

He seems to have remembered he has hands, fingernails raking down the back of your thighs before his left hand drifts up, fingers feather-light against your balls.

“I'm not going to last—  _ngh_  – last long.”

“I know,” he says, cheek against your thigh. His fingers creep up again and you focus on the ceiling, start doing maths in your head, anything to stave off the inevitable.

This particular scenario was one that haunted your dreams, back in those early days. Maybe he knows. Hell, who are you trying to fool, of course he knows.

_Fifty-two times twenty-eight is fifty-six plus -_

He bites your thigh at the exact moment he pushes a finger inside of you and you make a sound somewhere between a curse and a sob. You can feel him grin against the mark he just made and then his mouth goes back to your cock. You look down at him, lashes dark against his pale skin, his mouth stretched obscenely around you, and then he looks up and your eyes lock.

The way he looks at you, the way he has always looked at you, right from the start with his real self peeking out from behind the mask, and after that too close and strange and still unfamiliar with his hands on your bleeding ribcage and staring at you like he can’t work you out and even after that, his weight on you and cataloguing every twitch and moan and scream, and always,  _always_ , his fucking eyes, like he can look straight into your soul and he could, he can, you've got nothing left to hide behind.

And then he moves and you crash back into your body, but even as you come you don't close your eyes, unable to look away, clutching at the wire rack like it’s a lifebelt ‘cause  _fucking hell_.

He even swallows. That's practically a declaration of undying love, coming from him.

You lean against the tiles, unable to speak. Christ you’re in deep. Not that you didn’t know that, but the  _extent_  of it...

He stands up and tilts his head back into the water. “Get a grip, Sebastian, it's only a blowjob,” he says, eyes closed.

You laugh and he cocks his head at you, and then, well, fuck it, you pull him in and kiss him right underneath the spray, taking your time. He goes with it and his arm slides around your waist, holding you close.

When you pull away the expression on Jim's face is almost fond. “Well,” he says softly, hand resting just above your heart.

You close your eyes and your fingers encircle his wrist.

***

Whatever the sudden windfall was, it hasn’t changed that much, Jim is still planning. It involves a lot of calls and emails and more diagrams and computer stuff, and unfortunately very little legwork. There isn’t anything for you to do except pick up the occasional package, and you spend your free time hiking, or you go and raid his library, which is even better stocked than the one in London. You even start cleaning your guns, just to have something to do, and after a week or two you’re bored out of your mind.

And boredom leads you to do dangerous things, like setting up a makeshift shooting range in front of the house at ten in the evening without asking Jim first. Cruising for a bruising, but at least it’ll get his attention.

He comes out after the first few shots, feet crunching on the snow, and stops next to where you’re lying, hands in his pockets. “Really, Seb?” he drawls.

“Fuck off.” You take aim and fire. Perfect hit, again.

“At least make it interesting.”

You look up at him. He’s grinning, the same grin he wore when he accosted you in the gym, the one that means he has  _plans._  Plans of a very different nature than the ones he’s been working on.

“Interesting how?” you ask slowly.

***

You're halfway through a bottle of vodka. It's a bet, an experiment, both, neither. Jim is idly playing with the Beretta and the target is waiting anxiously on the other side. No, not anxiously, it's cardboard, cardboard does not have feelings.

“I must be drunk. I'm starting to antra- antromoph- “

Jim is grinning. You frown at the stars above, try to untangle your tongue.

“Anthropomorphising,”you state triumphantly.

“Ooh, well  _done._ ” Jim is laughing at you, quietly, not his usual madman's cackle. This is his private laugh, the one that only you get to hear. It's nice.

You try to remember the constellations, Orion, Sirius. No stars in London, and too busy to look at them in the desert. But there were a lot of them in Madras, and a diplomat’s daughter lying next to you, pointing them out. You’d go sneaking around the embassy together. A friend. You haven’t had many of those since then.

“Did you have friends when you were a kid? Your - your own little  _gang_ to order about?” You take another swig from the bottle and try to imagine the tiny Jim from the pictures in real life. “No, you must have been the quiet lonely one. The weird one everyone else avoided, right?”

“Shut it,” Jim says flatly. It's not a tone you're used to, so you roll your head to the side, take a look at him, and sit up suddenly. The world spins for a second. “Shit. Did I hit a nerve?” Which is absurd, Jim doesn't have weak spots. Sure, occasionally he goes berserk at the slightest provocation, but it's never because of something personal.

Jim rests his chin on his knees, staring in the dark. “I hated being a kid. No one takes you seriously.”

“I will – would have took – taken – y'know. Seriously.” You must be really drunk if your tenses are going. “Even when you're tiny.”

“Would you have?”

“Yeah. ‘S your eyes,” you say, waving the bottle. “They aren’t bloody _human_.”

Jim just stares at you, but that's alright, he does that sort of thing all the time. You take another swig and stretch your arms above your head. Jim is still looking, but as you watch his face goes from serious to grinning too quickly, leaving your head spinning.

“Here,” he says, handing you the gun. “Shoot something.”

You almost drop it. Your fingers aren’t cooperating, too clumsy, coordination fucked. “Damn it.”

“You’ll miss,” Jim says, grinning.

“No I won’t.” You shuffle around and take aim at the target. And even though you’re absolutely shit-faced, your hand is steady. You can shoot things in your  _sleep_.

“Bull's eye!” Jim crows, and he throws his arms around your neck, pulls you in for a violent kiss. “You beautiful boy.”

“Told you.” You wave an accusing finger at him. “You should have believed me.”

“I wouldn't have come this far if I just believed everything anyone said, darling,” he says, pushing you off again.

“How then? Did you claw your way out of the gutter?” you ask, slurring your consonants. “Did you kill your way to the top?

“Kill? Don't be vulgar, of course I didn't  _kill_. I just found people's sore points.”

You turn around and the world goes blurry for a second. “Their what?”

“Sore points. Every person has an Achilles heel, Seb,” he says, lecturing. “A pressure point, a button you can push.”

“Yeah?” you say, “What's yours?” And then your brain catches up with your mouth and you freeze, because no matter how drunk you are, you realise this might just be a step too far.

You look up slowly. He doesn't look angry, or threatening, or anything you might have expected. You can't read the look on his face but you can't look away from those coal-black eyes, can't even  _blink_. The silence grows heavy, and still he is looking at you as if the sheer heat of his glare might evaporate you. But why would he – oh.

_Oh._

He looks away first, which almost never happens. “Don't flatter yourself,” he says with a snort. “I'll shoot you in the back of the head myself the second you get in the way.”

This isn’t - You never would have guessed he...  “Yeah, I won't then,” you say, dazed. “Get in the way. I don't  _want_  to get in your way.”

Jim says something that might be  _I know_ , but it could be anything. You close your eyes. “I'm feeling sleepy.”

“Go to bed, then. And if you vomit on the Persian rug I will use your skin as a replacement.”

“No vomit,” you say, scrambling upright. “Got it. Night, Jim.”

He doesn't say anything, so you stagger back to the house.

***

“Graaagh.”

Jim doesn't look up from the newspaper. “Feeling a bit under the weather?”

“I feel like a swallowed a whole live  _cat_. What the  _hell_  did you give me?” you ask, running your hand over your face.

“You don't remember?”

“Everything starts getting fuzzy after the fifth glass of vodka.” You drop your hand and look at him. He's frowning a bit. “Why, did I do something?” You have a very blurred memory of Jim's face, looking serious in a way he rarely does, but you can't for the life of you remember what you said.

“It's not important.” He goes back to his paper. “Although I'd man up if I were you, my sweet, we're leaving for Melbourne in a couple of hours.”

“We’re going to sodding  _Australia_? What the hell for?”

“I'll tell you when you look less grey.”

“Yeah, whatever. I'll do the packing, shall I?” You turn to leave. “That's what I'm here for, right? Packing mule, guinea pig, occasional fuck toy.”

“More than  _occasional_ , I'd say,” he says, attention back on his papers. “And shave, you look like a homeless person.”

You flip him the finger and go the bedroom.

***

When you step out of the plane the sun hits you full in the face and you blink in confusion. It’s _December_ , it’s almost winter, but the sun is shining like it’s springtime. You squint up at the air, trying to make sense of this.

“Southern hemisphere,” Jim says.

“Oh, right. Forgot about that.”

He throws you a look. “I don’t keep you around for the brains, do I?”

“I could have got a first at Oxford, you know.”

“Really? It doesn’t show.” He hands you a pair of sunglasses and you shrug.

“Things go quicker when I let you do the thinking.”

“That they do. Go and get the bags, there’s a good boy.”

***

Melbourne is strange. Like New York and LA it feels too young and modern, not like European cities with their centuries of history smashed together in one limited space. But there’s something old here too, only noticeable around the edges. A bit like those old churches or temples, built on top of the ruins of the older ones - that sense of something lurking under the surface.

And after Switzerland the climate comes at a shock: summer started early this year and it’s at least twenty-five degrees, with a bright burning sun. You used to be able to shrug off the heat, run around the desert in full camouflage gear, but after over six years in London you're more used to rain and grey skies.

But you adapt, and after a couple of days you're tanned, but Jim's pasty skin doesn't deal nearly as well with the heat as yours. Even though he spends most of his time inside, he has somehow managed to get sunburned.

His nose has gone pink. It's desperately endearing.

“So why are we here again?” you ask. The sheets are nice and cool beneath your back, the AC has been running non-stop, and Jim is within hand’s reach, sitting on a chair next to the bed, feet on the mattress. It’s actually quite peaceful, in a lazy-Sunday-mornings kind of way.

“Shadow G-8.”

You blink at the ceiling. “Was that supposed to be an explanation? Because if it was, it didn't work.”

“I'm trying to organize a meeting with some of the most powerful people in the criminal world.”

You push up to your elbows. “Why?”

“Never you mind,” he says, giving you a strange, closed-off look. It's a look that you've been seeing more and more, ever since that last meeting with Irene Adler.

“Fine, don't tell me,” you say, dropping down again and closing your eyes. “How's it going, then? The meeting?”

“I've spread the word, and now it's just a matter of waiting. Again,” he adds, voice going a bit nasty.

“You could use the free time to relax,” you say.

“Relax?”

You crack one eye open. “You do know what that word means, don't you?”

He tilts his head and goes cobra-stare again.

“What?” You frown at him.

He drops his legs on the floor and goes over to the AC control panel, switching it off. The sudden stop of the buzzing noise makes the room feel unnaturally quiet.

You sit up. “What the hell are you - ”

“Shirt off,” he says, in his no-arguments voice. You shut up and pull your t-shirt over our head, throw it neatly into the corner.

“Anything else?” you ask. Nevermind laziness, this looks  _interesting_.

“Hands over your head.” You do as he says, grasping at the curving metal of the headboard.

“And you're going to keep them there,” he says slowly, “no matter what happens.”

“No handcuffs?”

“No handcuffs,” he confirms. You swallow and he starts stripping off, without hurrying. The temperature inside the room is already starting to climb, and you're starting to see where this is going.

Sex with Jim is almost always amazing, often violent, and occasionally terrifying, but sometimes he likes to go above and beyond, treating your body and your reactions as a canvas, or a scientific experiment. It leaves you without exception a sobbing, begging mess.

The no-handcuffs thing is new, though, and a bit worrying.

“I don't need handcuffs for this, do I?” he says, standing naked at the end of the bed. “Because you do exactly what I tell you to. Don't you?”

He crawls onto the bed and sits down on your shins, reaching for your waistband. You watch every movement of his hands, riveted.

“So if I do this...” His fingers curl around your balls and your fingers tighten around the metal coils. “And all you want to do is reach out and touch...” His other hand takes hold of your hip, thumb resting on the hollow next to the bone.

He bends down and you're already starting to get hard, even though he has barely touched you. But it's always like this with him, all he has to do is snap his fingers and you're ready to go.

“You want to let go, don't you?” He looks up at you from underneath his eyelashes and your fingers are itching to bury in his hair. “You want to use those hands of yours to pull me down, to touch yourself, to do  _something_.”

He leans forward and licks a long strip up your stomach. You throw your head back and bury your teeth in your bottom lip. The position of your arms makes the skin above your midriff pull taut, and sweat is starting to pool.

“So why don't you, hm? What's stopping you? There are no handcuffs holding you down, no rope, no ties.”

He puts his hands on either side of your ribcage and leans higher. His head dips again, mouth an inch from your throat. “You know you want to,” he whispers, and it's true, and it would be so easy to let go, to drop one hand onto his neck. Your shoulders are starting to cramp and the palm of your hand is hurting where the spiky bits of metal of the headboard are digging in.

A drop of sweat has reached your chin and slides down slowly. Jim shifts and catches it with his tongue, licking again, his teeth scraping gently underneath your jaw, and you moan.

But your hands stay above your head.

“Good boy.” His teeth close around your earlobe and you squeeze your eyes shut. Begging only tends to encourage him, but you come close nevertheless.

“Keep 'em closed,” he orders, and you can feel him get off the bed.

“If you're going to leave me like this, you bastard – ”

“If I were you I'd worry about the things I'm going to do to you, instead of the ones I'm  _not_  going to do to you,” he says from the other side of the room. “Ah-ha, found it. Keep your eyes closed, Seb,” he repeats. A few seconds later the bed dips again and you can feel him settle down between your legs.

The heat is starting to get to you, especially since you're still wearing your khakis, pushed halfway down your thighs. And you  _hate_ not being able to see.

“What are you – ” you start to say, and then his mouth closes around your cock and you almost kick him in the face, only stopped by your trousers tangled around your legs and Jim's hand on your knee. The evil little git has put fucking  _ice cubes_  in his mouth, and the combination of the stinging cold and the wet slide of his mouth seems calculated to drive you insane. You tighten your grip on the metal and it actually gives a little. Jim looks up at you, eyes crinkling with laughter, but before you can say anything he adjust his grip on your hip and takes you deeper. You thrash against the sheets in a fruitless attempt to throw him off, but still you keep your hands up.

Obedient ‘til the end, right?

The bastard keeps it up until it’s just crossing the edge of painful, and then he pulls off and spits the icecube out on the sheets. He sits back, watching you closely.

You’re too winded to speak and for once he’s silent as well, just -  _watching_ , as you breathe and gasp and struggle to regain your control. His thumb idly traces an old bruise on your hipbone and the heat of his eyes is getting almost too much, so you close your eyes, listen to your heartbeat slowing down. When you open your eyes again he’s still looking at you, and that little wrinkle between his eyebrows means he’s concentrating. You swallow.

And then he grins, pops the half-melted icecube back into his mouth and goes back to your cock. This time he keeps at it until the ice has melted completely, pinning you to the mattress by the hips and his legs on yours to stop the thrashing. When he’s finally done he pulls off with an obscene slurping sound and sits up.

“Now,” he says cheerfully, “Where have you put the lube?”

“I think your point's been made, Jim,” you say, voice hoarse. “And anyway, I don't think I can move my arms now, even if I wanted to.”

“Considering you're still capable of forming grammatically correct sentences, my dove, I'd say we still have a long way to go.” He cocks his head. “Besides, did I say you could open your eyes?”

You drop your head back on the pillow. “When I said  _relax,_  I meant take a nap, go swimming, something like that. Not torturing me just for fun.”

“Shut it and spread 'em, darling, there's a good boy.”

***

The ceiling is rippling.

Alright, the ceiling's not really rippling, and the little flashes in front of your eyes are not actual fireflies, but that's what it feels like. You try to raise your hand and drop it again, too exhausted to move.

The AC is back on, and you can hear Jim's voice from the other side of the room, on the phone again. He didn't even look tired, the unnatural fuck.

He comes back and flops down on the massive bed, ankles crossed. You roll your head to the side and watch his face, too worn out to do anything else. He looks pleased.

“That was Irene Adler,” he tells you, “getting ready for Act Two.”

“What?” you try to say, only it comes out sounding more like  _whuff._

“She's going to play dead. It was her idea, make Sherlock believe she was killed and then coming back in a tearful reunion. It's clever, I'll admit that. Pulling his strings like that.” He looks at you. “Are you coherent yet?”

“Gettin' there,” you say roughly. He rolls back off the bed and goes to the bathroom. The tap runs, and then he comes back with a full glass.

“Can you hold it yourself or do I need to hold it for you?” he asks when he gets back on the bed, all fake solicitousness.

“Fuck off,” you say, sitting up. He hands you the glass and you gulp the water down greedily. Figures he would choose this moment to open up, when you’re struggling to even string a sentence together, let alone ask the right questions.

“Is that why you didn't ask for money?” you ask, once your head has cleared up a bit. “Cause she's messing with Sherlock?”

“That, and because in the grander scheme of things, she's doing me quite the favour.”

You run that sentence through your head. As far as you know, Irene Adler’s little game has very little to do with any of Jim’s other projects. “What's that supposed to mean?”

He lies down again and rubs unconsciously at his nose. Still not answering.  _Still_ locking you out.

“Are you going to tell me anything?” you ask, frustration bleeding through. “At all? What you’re doing, what’s it all for?”

He rolls his head to the side and considers you. “I'm going to invade Mycroft Holmes' inner sanctum.”

Holmes again. “And he'll let you?”

“Oh, darling, he'll take me there himself.”

 _'Why_?”

“Because he'll believe I'm a threat. Quite rightly too, but for all the wrong reasons.” He stares at the ceiling. “I'm going to tear their world apart and they will give it to me willingly.” He grins. “I'll be the Trojan Horse.”

Your eyes fall closed. You feel _drained_ , and you always sleep like the dead after Jim has had his way with you like that. Your sleep-hungry mind skips randomly over your memories. Irene Adler. Her smile, that look she had...

“What about the girl?” you ask, words starting to slur.

“What girl?” Jim asks absently.

“The girl. Adler’s girl. Kate.”

He turns his head on the pillow and gives you an honestly surprised look. “What on earth has  _she_ got to do with anything?”

“She matters,” you mumble. She matters and John Watson matters and you matter, and he shouldn’t forget about that, but before you can put that thought into a sentence it’s gone again and you let yourself drift away.

***

Even after three weeks in Melbourne you still can’t shake the feeling of _wrongness_ every time the sun comes up. Christmas should not be sunny. Still, it’s a whole lot better than fucking Switzerland; you’ll choose scorching heat over freezing temperatures anyday. 

And there’s more to do and see here as well. You’ve been amusing yourself with exploring the local crime world, as well with the more traditional kind of sightseeing. And then there's Jim's meeting, of course. As usual he has left he boring bits - finding a place to meet, making sure it's safe - to you. Although he is doing the phonecalls, for some reason. Usually he leaves that to you as well.

“I’ve just had a word with Ricoletti’s head of security,” Jim says.

You look up from the mirror. Jim is standing in the doorway, fingers tapping idly against his phone. “And?”

“His boss is being paranoid, wants to check out the building. I've told him to liase with my own head of security.”

You turn back. “Ah, is that what they're calling it these days?” You run your hand over your jaw. Three days worth of stubble. It’s getting annoying, but you hate shaving with those plastic safety razors. Besides, Jim has discovered he quite likes stubble burn.

“Keep those jokes for yourself when you meet him. He's notoriously homophobic.”

“Really?” You look back at Jim, trying to gauge his mood. Not entirely relaxed, but not immensely tense either. Focused? And fairly cheerful. “So he hasn't heard the rumours, then?”

“Oh, he has, but he thinks it's slander.” He smiles. “After all, someone as feared and respected as me can’t possibly be  _un arruso_ , can he?”

“A what?”

He waves his hand. “One of those  _charming_ Sicilian insults.”

“Well, he can call me whatever he wants but if he insults you he's going through the window,  _capo da famiglia_  or not,” you say placidly. Your eye falls on Jim's razor, shiny and sharp. Well, why not. You take it and flick it open.

Jim laughs. “I don't think I've ever seen you protective before, Seb. It's quite adorable.”

“Piss off.” You test the edge – still as sharp as ever. You glance at Jim. “Do you have to watch me?”

He nods at the razor. “Going to use that?”

“I thought I might give it a go. But I'd rather not do it with you breathing down my neck, if it’s all the same for you.”

He raises his eyebrows and leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, with obviously no intention to leave. Stubborn contrary git.

You put the razor on your jaw but press down too hard and it breaks the skin. You draw back with a curse, and Jim giggles.

“Oops. Not so simple as it seems, is it Seb?”

“You're not helping.” You touch your jaw carefully. It's a small cut, nothing that horrible.

“No, I'm not. It's quite enjoyable, watching you blunder. You're going to end up covered in blood if you keep this up.”

“Want to bet?” It slips out automatically, but Jim's eyes light up.

“For?”

It’s the opportunity you’ve been waiting for. You meet his eye in the mirror. “An answer.”

And just like that the joking atmosphere evaporates. Jim's eyes narrow, but you can't take it back, even if you wanted to.

“And what do you offer if you lose?” he asks softly.

You swallow. “Whatever you want.”

It’s a risk. There are a couple of things - not many - that are out of bounds, and surprisingly enough he respects that. Most of the time. Giving him permission like this, is... Well. Damn good motivation to do it right, for one thing.

He nods. You get to work.

Once you get the hang of it it isn’t that difficult. You know how to handle a blade better than most, and so it’s just a matter of copying Jim’s movements and some common sense.

Jim is watching you rather intently all the way through. Whether it’s just interest or an attempt to unnerve you, you’ll never know, but either way you finish without another spilled drop of blood.

“There,” you say triumphantly, washing away the last traces of foam. “Not one drop.”

He steps up and turns your head around, examining the result. “Not bad,” he admits, and then he goes on tiptoe and licks the drop of blood from beneath your ear, the sodding vampire.

“So?” you say, nose against his cheek.

He goes down again. “Oh, very well, ask away.”

You cock your head and study him. He’s been less tense lately, but it’s still playing with fire. It always is, really.

“What’s the end game?” you ask at last.

His faint smile disappears and he copies you, head tilted to one side, staring at you. You let him look.

“Destruction,” he says at last. And then he smiles, manic-bright, and adds, “Distraction as well.”

“You’re doing this because you’re  _bored_?”

His lip curls up. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

“If you’d just – “

But he turns away before you can finish and goes to the balcony. You trail after him.

It’s New Year’s Eve. You would have forgotten about it if it wasn’t for the fireworks that have been everywhere since the sun went down, no ignoring those.

Another loud bang reverberates through the air, followed by a shower of bright sparks. Jim reaches into your jacket and pulls out your cigarettes. He taps out two, steals your lighter as well, lights them both and hands one over.

You take a deep drag and watch as a group of loud party-goers go by in the street below. They look like they’re having fun. It’s odd, being here, inside, in your own private bubble, while everyone else is partying and getting drunk and god knows what else.

“God, it’s been ages since I celebrated,” you say quietly.

Jim looks up, at ease again. “Is it?”

“Mm. My parents used to go to these fancy white-tie parties with champagne and canapés, and drag me along. I was bored out of my mind every year...” You smile, lost in memory. “I got my revenge the last year, though.”

“Why, what did you do?”

“Shagged the ambassador to Sweden. And his wife." You glance at him. "Separately, in case you’re wondering.”

Jim makes a sound that’s half exasperated, half amused.

“It was pretty hilarious," you continue. "Watching them both dance around with guilt, not knowing the other was guilty as well.  You should’ve seen my father’s face when he found out,” you add, smirking.

He cocks his head. “And after that? Didn’t celebrate with people of your own age?”

“Oh, I did, at Oxford. I got plastered and kissed a lot of strangers. I started off ninety-three in a pile of naked people.”

He snorts. “How you managed to come this far without being riddled with STD’s is beyond me, Sebastian.”

“Luck, mostly. And being smart enough to always carry a condom or two in my back pocket.” You take in his derisive expression and smile. “I really didn’t sleep around  _that_  much, you know.”

He raises his eyebrow at you. “Really?”

“In Oxford, yeah, but not in the army. They didn’t look kindly to buggering your corporal behind the Officer’s Mess. It wasn’t worth the risk, most of the time.”

“And after?”

“Yeah, well, after… ” You shrug. “What, you expect me to be embarrassed?’

“No, I suppose not.” He looks down, to another group of drunken revellers passing beneath. “I watched you, you know,” he says suddenly. “Before we...”

Security cameras turning your way and significant looks the day after. “Yeah, I know.”

“It was very frustrating.”

You glance at him. “What, watching me fuck my way through half London and not getting any yourself?”

He turns back and gives you a sardonic look. “Hardly. I meant you. Most people have a type, but you...”

You never really looked at it that way. There are just people you fancy and people you don’t, and you never bothered thinking about why. Although it's a bit difficult to remember that, because Jim eclipses every single one of the people you slept with.

“I do have a type.” You smirk at him. “Short pasty too-smart-for-their-own-good Irishmen with good taste in clothes and a strange sense of humour.”

“Took you a while to discover that, didn’t it?”

“I realised it eventually.”

He smiles again, but his eyes are distant. Strange mood, this one. Seems almost nostalgic.

You take another thoughtful drag. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Did you... Before us?”

He doesn’t reply. To be honest, you wouldn’t even be surprised if it turned out he was a virgin before the two of you started fucking. He was  _weird_ when it came to sex, back when he didn’t know you that well yet. The stilted confidence, the incessant need for control... At the time you just considered it as another one of his eccentricities, but looking back at it now, after years of watching him and his moods and his coping mechanisms, it makes a little more sense.

He was covering something up.

“I wasn’t as much of a whore as you were, no,” he says at last.

“Slut, if you want to get technical,” you say, tapping the ash off your cigarette. “Whore implies payment.”

“Yes, and  _you_ never did it for anything but the joy of it.” He glances at you sideways. The emphasis is subtle but it’s there. You did. He didn’t.

And it’s dangerous to dwell on that for too long. You force yourself to stop speculating, and another firework goes off, providing distraction.

“How much longer?” you ask, looking up at the multi-coloured streams of sparks.

“Five minutes.” He tips his head back and breathes out a stream of smoke.  Lost in thought, or memories, maybe.

“You don’t have to tell me anything - ” you start, but Jim interrupts you, sneering.

“Ah, thank you for reminding me, Sebastian. For a second there I was convinced I was under some obligation to you.”

“All I’m saying is that I can listen,” you say patiently. “If you ever do want to share. I know the concept is  _alien_ to you, but...”

He doesn’t reply immediately, fingers playing around with his cigarette. You look away, give him room to think, to brood.

“It didn’t make sense,” he says at last.

You look up in surprise. “What, sex? What is there to make sense of? It’s just - ” You wave your hand. “Bodies.”

“For you, perhaps.”

Of course. For Jim  _everything_ is complicated, multi-layered, and a means to manipulate others. It shouldn’t surprise you, really.

But it does make you wonder. You kissedhim all those years ago, basically propositioned him, because – well, because you couldn’t even _look_ at him without getting hard by then, and you had assumed it was roughly the same for him. But what if it wasn’t? What if he had a whole different reason to let you into his bed, what if it was just a game after all? What if -

“You can stop worrying.” You turn to him. He’s still staring in the distance, cigarette held loosely between his fingers. “I took you because I wanted you, no ulterior motives. Well,” he smiles thinly, “that and the fact that you were actually competent at what you did.”

He looks at you, and a memory comes out of nowhere, of Jim staring at you with dark serious eyes and the sky littered with stars above. But it’s gone before you can place it.

“Thanks,” you say, by lack of anything better. And before you can make any more sense of it the air  _explodes_.

Jim turns around and leans his elbows on the banister. “Happy New Year, Sebastian,” he yells over the racket.

You grab his collar and pull him in for a kiss - some traditions are worth keeping. He flips you around and lands you with your back against the banister, hands on your hips. “New year, new world,” he mutters, and there’s a whole layer of meaning there that you can’t begin to grasp.

So you don’t try.

***

Ricoletti isn’t the only one who’s paranoid. Every single one of them sends their respective  _head of security_ to nose around the building and the meeting room on the top floor. You take them up and let them sniff around with ever-increasing amusement. They’re all tough serious men, used to other people being intimidated by them, but you, well...

“Don’t forget the Gatling gun in the ceiling,” you say offhandedly, and the stupid fuck actually looks up. “Joke,” you add.

“Very funny,” the guy growls, and then adds  _sharmoot_  under his breath.

Jim is waiting for you downstairs, hidden in the background until the other man is well out of sight. Only then does he amble up to you. “I thought I had told you to play nice?” he asks, but his smile is indulgent.

“I was just being friendly. Even when  _he_ wasn’t, calling your host a  _whore_  isn’t exactly polite, is it?” You fall into step behind him. “Honestly, do they think British people are incapable of learning foreign languages?”

“It gives us an advantage. Unless you let him know you - ”

“Still not an idiot, thank you very much. He’s convinced I’m just another English dunce.”

Jim snorts. “I seriously doubt that.”

“Underestimating my acting abilities?”

“They will have heard about you.”

You frown. “So? He’s a serious player, he’s not going to be intimidated by rumours.”

Jim squashes your cheeks and coos at you. “Sometimes you’re just so  _innocent_ , Sebastian.” You wrestle him off and he laughs. “Of course he’s intimidated, they all are. You’re mythical, darling, it’s why I need you there.” He grins at you. “To remind everyone that all it would take is a snap of my fingers and you would turn them all into mincemeat.”

“And they will still turn up, even though they risk everything?”

“Oh, they will.” He tips his head back and closes his eyes with an expression of delight. “They don’t dare not to.”

***

Two weeks later the moment is finally there. Jim and you arrive first, as agreed. Jim immediately goes to the middle of the room and spins around slowly. Then he kicks at the chair at the head of the table and goes to stand by the window, back to the door. You light a cigarette and hand it over to him, and then you go stand in the corner, unobtrusive but with a perfect view of the entire room. No chance of any funny business.

They trail in one after the other. Jim’s words are still in the back of your head, so you try to catch their eye. You’re still a subordinate, so they try to ignore you, but you can see them stiffen whenever they accidentally meet your eyes. They look ready to piss themselves with fear, it’s hilarious.

All except one, that is. The man in question is the only British one of the lot, and he tries just a bit too hard not to show his fear. It’s strange, but it’s not just the posturing that's making you suspicious: there’s something oddly familiar about him as well.

He turns his head, folds his hands in front of him, and for some reason you suddenly get a clear image of quads and books and arches, and - ah.

Balliol. And the man in question is Timothy Burgess, the clean-shaven, lantern-jawed head boy type of man that Oxford was full of, definitely  _not_  the sort of person to be in charge of a criminal organisation.

You cross the room and join Jim at the window. He's still smoking, and staring into the distance with an abstracted look on his face, but that doesn't actually mean that he isn't paying attention. The only time he truly drifts off is at home.

“We've got a mole,” you say casually. He turns his head in one of his reptilian too-quick movements.

“How do  _you_ know that?” he asks, meaning that he knew already but didn't think to share, the secretive little shit.

“Was in my year at Oxford. He,” you smile and posh up your accent, “got a tap on the shoulder from a chap from MI-6.”

“Isn't that supposed to be secret?”

You snort. “Unlike everyone else, I didn't have my head up my arse at the time. They're not nearly as subtle as they think they are.”

He hums and flicks the ash from his cigarette on the carpet. “Has he recognised you?”

“Doubt it.”

He turns and looks at Burgess with an intensity that's usually accompanied by screams. The man turns his head and recoils visibly when he notices Jim staring.

“Still, better play safe," Jim says. "We’ll ask him over after we're done.”

***

The meeting doesn’t make nearly as much sense as you hoped it would. You were expecting a glimpse into Jim’s plans, but instead it’s just your bog-standard territorial discussions and trade agreements and fuck knows what else.

And then, halfway through, he tells you to go outside.

“Excuse me?” you ask, struggling to keep the surprise from your voice.

“Out. Now. I’ll call you when I need you.” He raises his eyebrows at you. Starting to argue with him here, in front of strangers, is not an option. So you give him a curt nod and go wait outside in the hallway.

He must have his reasons. Although you can’t begin to understand what they are. Why can’t you know? It’s like you suddenly lost his trust, except that you’re sure that if you  _had_ , you wouldn’t be here anymore.

You lean your head back against the wall. Irene Adler. Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes. The Trojan Horse - maybe he has found a mole in Mycroft’s inner circle. But that still doesn’t explain the secrecy.

The door opens and the guests come out, doing their very damned best to ignore you. You give them a cheerful smile all the same. After all six of them have disappeared you go back inside and quietly close the door. Burgess is still inside, talking with Jim. Still unsuspecting.

Burgess hears the click of the door and turns around to face you. His eyes meet yours and he blinks.

“Take a very good look, Timothy,” Jim says softly.

Burgess frowns, and then Jim’s words catch up with him and his eyes go wide in shock.

You cock your head. “Memories coming back to you? Tell me, ‘cause I forgot: were you one of the uptight prissy ones or did I actually get around to fucking you?”

The stupid fuck makes the mistake of dodging for the door, even while you’re very clearly standing in his way. You wrestle him to the floor with hardly any effort, with Jim laughing in the background.

“Careful, dear, don’t break him just yet.” He hops onto the table and throws you a pair of handcuffs. You cuff Burgess’ hands behind his back and try to keep him still. “Now, Sebastian here – you do remember him now, don't you?”

Burgess squirms beneath you, even though he's flat on his stomach and restrained, pinned to the floor by your weight. Not going to give up easily, it seems.

“He doesn't seem to  _like_  you very much. But I'm sure that if you're nice to us, he'll warm up to you.” Jim slides off the table and crouches next to Burgess, leaning close. “But I wouldn't dawdle,” he says confidentially. “He's an impatient lad, our Sebastian.”

“Fuck you,” he growls. Potty mouth for a civil servant.

Jim springs up. “Not  _quite_  what I was hoping for. You see, all I want is for you to answer a few questions.” He smiles charmingly. “Surely that can't be hard?”

“I'm not telling you anything.”

“Ah.” Jim leans back against the table and lobs something at you, and you catch without looking. It's his straight razor, the one you’ve been using for the last few days. You meet eyes and he winks at you -  _impress me_.

“Last chance, Timmy,” he says as you cut away his shirt in a few quick strokes, and the fabric falls away without any resistance.

You lean sideways to catch Burgess' expression. He's thin-lipped, resolved. You look back at Jim and watch the smile slip from his face.

“Who do you work for?” Jim asks, every hint of good humour suddenly gone from his voice.

It’s a formality, just the first step to breaking him. He’s MI-6, what else, and he must know you know. But Burgess doesn't answer. You put the blade just below his shoulder blade and look at Jim for permission. He gives you a curt nod.

The first incision is a precise surgical line, as is the next one, parallel to the first, a thin bloody landing strip. Burgess doesn't make a noise.

“Who do you work for?”

He stops being quiet when you peel off his skin, though.

***

“Well.”

You look up from the bloodstained sink. Jim's eyes are glittering. The last time you saw him look like that was a few seconds before he tore apart one of your favourite suits in his eagerness to get to your skin.

“That was fun,” he adds.

“Why did you send me out?”' You’ve been scrubbing for five minutes and the water is still coming away pink. You raise your hand to eye-level. There are still clear red traces underneath your nails, but then again, it was a pretty messy job. You look over your shoulder. “What is it you didn’t want me to hear?”

“Doesn’t matter.” He stretches lazily, eyes squeezed shut like a cat.

You give up scrubbing and turn around, crossing your arms. “And what about him?” You nod at the meeting room, where Burgess’ corpse is waiting to be disposed of. “Isn’t that a problem? MI-6 coming this close? I thought this was why we left London in the first place.”

“We did. But times are changing.” He turns around and walks back to the main room. “ _Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes,”_  he sings.

“Where the fuck did you learn Latin?” you shout after him. Lessons left behind for over fifteen years, but you still remember that particular sentence.

_Beware Greeks bearing gifts._

_***_

Usually bodies have a way of conveniently disappearing around Jim.

Not this time, however. He told you to put the body in the booth, and you did, thinking he would tell you to take it to the docks or a building site or any of those other places that can be used for the purpose. Instead he directs you to a darkish alley two streets away from the British Consulate.

“Here,” he says, casually.

You twist around in your seat. “Are you fucking serious?”

“Yes I am. Chop chop, get him out.”

“They’ll find him within the day, if even that. Are you – “

“Sebastian,” he says, and there’s something very dangerous in his voice.

“ _Fine_.”

You get out. There's a security camera, but Jim will have taken care of that. And no other people around.

You open the booth and get Burgess’ body out – at least, the bits that are still left of him. You try to hide it behind the bins, but it’s still incredibly noticeable. It's practically hanging up a sign, DEAD BODY, PLEASE NOTIFY THE POLICE.

“That’ll do,” Jim says from the car.

You get back in, feeling deeply unsettled. 

"Don't look like that," Jim says, frowning. "He's meant to be found."

You start the engine and keep your eyes on the wheel. "I'm surprised you didn't just leave him on their doorstep."

He chuckles. "Decided against it, in the end."

***

You leave for London a couple of days later. You get dropped off at the airport but instead of going straight to the VIP lounge, the way it usually happens when Jim is travelling, he takes you to a secluded part of the airport.

Where a fucking  _private jet_  is waiting for you.

“Since when do we fly private?”

He shrugs and slides his shades off. “Since  _now_ , obviously. Get in, I’m getting tired of this damn sun.”

You go inside and settle down in your chair in silence. You close your eyes, listen to the rumble of engines. Feel the pressure slamming you back into our seat - no matter how often you’ve flown, this bit never gets old.

Once the plane is level you sprawl a little more comfortably. The jetlag is going to kill you anyway so you might as well have some sleep now. It’s not like Jim talks to you, anyway. He must know what you’re thinking about all this, the sudden loss of caution, his incessant secrecy… But he’s obviously ignoring it.

“Stop sulking,” Jim says after a while.

You keep your eyes closed. “I'm not the one who's refusing to talk.”

“Sebastian. You’re being childish.”

“Yeah?” You open your eyes. “Cause I thought this was exactly what you wanted, someone who shuts up and does exactly what he’s told?”

“Sebastian - ” he starts impatiently.

“No.” You sit up straighter. “I have been tagging along without a clue what you’re doing for the last three months, no questions asked - ”

“You did ask - ”

“Yeah, once or twice, and you told me to back off  _and I did_. And I’d like to know how long you intend to keep this up, ‘cause I  _don’t_ appreciate being treated like a brainless lackey.”

He glares at you, mouth thin, and you look straight back. The straw that breaks the back and all that, and he can shout all he wants, you’re not backing down. Not this time.

And then he looks out of the window and shrugs. “Well, I suppose now is as good a time to tell you as any. I’m going to get caught.”

You nearly slide off our chair in surprise. “You  _what_?”

He gives you a serene smile. “I'm going to let Mycroft Holmes catch me.”

“Are you insa-  _Why_?”

“I need something from him, and he’ll only give it to me if he thinks he’s in control.”

“Sherlock,” you say flatly.

“Yes, Sherlock, well done. Do you need to shout for a bit? Get it all out of your system?”

“ _That’’_ s the big masterplan? Flaunting your crimes and getting thrown into prison?” You run a hand over your face. “And how do you plan to escape? I mean, I know you're good, but MI-5's prison cells aren't exactly - ”

“He'll let me go himself, of course. Anything to find out what I'm up to.”

It doesn't make any sense. Even for Jim, it doesn't make sense, and you don't understand how he can't see that.

“So let me get this straight,” you say, ticking off on your fingers. “You're assuming he'll be the one to catch you, not someone else, that he'll keep you alive, that he'll be willing to talk to you, that he'll give you whatever it is you're looking for and that he'll let you go after that. That's a fuckload of assumptions.”

He smiles at you. It’s a dangerous smile, that one. “Have you lost your faith in me, Sebastian? Do you really think I don't know what I'm doing?”

“I - No, of course not, don’t be stupid. But - I don’t understand.”

He rolls his eyes. “Of course you don’t understand, frankly I’d be very surprised if you did. But,” his voice drops low, “ _all will become clear in time_.”

You lean forward and fold your hands. It’s big, it’s unbelievably risky, and convoluted and ridiculous and you can almost feel everything spinning out of your control. You can’t - you trust him, of course you trust him, you can’t even imagine not trusting him, but this?

You look up. “Is this what you meant with that bullshit about Troy?”

“The Trojan Horse. You remember that one, don’t you? I'll destroy both of them from the inside out, and they'll hold the door for me.”

He looks at you. The light of the setting sun reflects in his eyes, twin little flames, making him look like a demon in one of those medieval paintings he's so fond of.

“They'll burn, darling,” he says, grinning. “They'll  _burn_.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **the 1812 overture, especially the bit with the cannons** : [ for your hearing pleasure](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VbxgYlcNxE8). Tchaikovsky is...not one of for subtlety. The 1812 overture is hilariously over the top, including churchbells and, at the end, cannon fire. Listen to the last few minutes and tell me you can't see Jim dancing along to that.
> 
>  **the FSB** : Russian Intelligence Service, spiritual successor to the KGB
> 
>  **Balliol** : one of Oxford’s colleges. One of the three oldest, in fact, founded somewhere in the 13th century
> 
>  **Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes** : line from the Aeneid, where Laocoon the priest tries to convince his fellow Trojans not to accept the giant suspicious-looking wooden horse the Greeks left behind. (he doesn't succeed)
> 
>  **MI-5/MI-6** : Not a typo! 6 is foreign intelligence, 5 is homeland security.


	10. The Spider

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which Jim Plays Hide And Seek With The Intelligence Service

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for explicit m/m sex, graphic violence, torture, gore, sadism, masochism, mental health issues, depression

**10\. The Spider**

_Come get me_   
_Wicked fines won't arrest me_   
_I'm like Lucifer's child_   
_Wild, acid done_   
_Black sunglasses shade the morning sun_   
_(Kasabian - Fast Fuse)_

 

The second you set foot on British soil, someone starts following you. “Ah, look,” you say sourly, “they’re here already to drag you off to prison.”

He huffs and glares at you. The last few hours of the flight didn’t exactly pass in what you’d call a  _friendly atmosphere_. “Don’t be ridiculous, that’s just a disposable flunky.”

“You’ve got a point,” you say, as you turn around and your tail ducks behind a pillar, at least two seconds too late. “He’s shit.”

“Dispose of him for me, will you?”

You turn back to Jim. “Why? I thought you wanted to be seen?”

_“Sebastian_. Work first, explanations later.”

Which is at least better than  _just do as you’re told_. “Fine, I’m on it. Suggestions?”

“Surprise me.” He raises his eyebrows. “Unless you're still sulking?”

“Ha bloody ha. Take the tube.”

You hand Jim one of the bags and break off, heading in another direction. As you predicted the spy follows Jim, the prime target. You trail after him without him noticing, disappearing in the crowd.

The mass of people trudge towards the tube station, and it’s laughably easy to stay hidden. Jim pulls off the grand disappearing trick flawlessly, pretending he’s waiting for another train and then getting in at the last possible moment. The doors clang shut in front of the spy’s nose he backs away, cursing. There's a moment when everything is chaos, all noise disappearing into the rumble of the leaving train, people bumping into each other in their hurry to get out. The spy, plans thwarted, backs off and walks to the one place of the platform that's still reasonably quiet, a shadowy spot near a reinforced steel door. Where you are lying in wait.

You pull him into the darkness, one arm around his shoulders, a knife against his throat.

“Hi,” you breathe in his ear. “We're going to play a little game.”

***

About half an hour later someone knocks at the door of the utility room you dragged your spy to. You swing the door open and let Jim in.

“You missed the fun part,” you say. “He just passed out.”

“Pity.” His eyes trail over your bare arms – no sense in ruining a perfectly good shirt with blood, he has trained you well. “Found something yet?”

“Not much. He's a subcontractor, only told to follow you. I think he knows the name of his employer, but...” You glance at the man, hanging with his hands chained above his head to the piping. “We hadn't got there yet.”

“We have time,” Jim says. His fingers are dancing again, tapping out an erratic pattern on his thigh.

“Right. Explanation?” you ask.

“Hm?” He's bouncing on his heels, too, subtle but noticeable. Stressed.

You take your jacket from where it's draped over another piece of piping and find your cigarettes. “I thought you wanted to be followed. To be noticed.”

“Me, yes. Not you.”

“I've been tracked before.”

“You and dozens of others. They had no idea of your real importance.”

You put the cigarette between your lips, light it, and hand it over to Jim. He takes a deep drag and his eyes flutter closed. “They can  _never_ know about this.” He gestures between him and you. “Us.”

“But they have to know, right?” you ask, lighting a fag for yourself. “I’ve got a reputation, you said so yourself.”

He opens his eyes again and stares at the wall, frowning. “Whispers and hear-say. There aren’t many people who’ve seen your face.  _Think_ , Sebastian. Remember before you met me?”

The most insane rumours and a dozen different descriptions and nothing that came close to a fact. “Yeah, I remember.”

“You’re unknown, and I’d like to keep it that way. Hence...” He jerks his head at the prisoner.

“Well, he won’t go blabbing about anything any time soon, that’s for sure,” you say, watching Jim.

He ambles up to the prisoner and tilts his head, like he’s appreciating a Rembrandt. “You're awfully good with a blade, aren't you?” he says, admiring.

“So why?”

“Hm?” he says, still looking at the spy.

“Why don't you want them to know about me? Us, whatever?”

He holds his cigarette out, watching the tip glow.

“Jim?”

He doesn't answer. Instead he presses the burning tip into one of the many open wounds on the man's body. He comes back to consciousness screaming, and then you have other things to do than question Jim's motives.

***

By the time you finally get home it’s nearing midnight. Jim has been quiet all the way there, but he’s practically thrumming with tension, and so deep inside his own mind that he doesn’t even notice the car has stopped.

You snap your fingers in front of his nose. “Hey. We’re here.”

Jim blinks and gets out in silence. You send the driver away and follow him upstairs.

“Home sweet home,” you say when you push open the front door. The place feels dusty and stale after months away. It's not as if you could hire a cleaner, is it?

_Don’t forget to dust the Ming vase, careful with the Rothko on the wall, and, oh, don’t mind the severed hand in the fridge, it’s been chemically treated, it’ll keep._

You deposit the bags in the bedroom and go back to the living room. Jim is standing at the window, arms crossed, staring outside. It's a habit you share with him; whenever you're deep in thought, something draws you to that view.

You lean against the window, facing him. Maybe you should give him some space, but his mood seems to have shifted, less aggressive, more thoughtful. And… Well, it’s difficult to say _how_ you know but you’re fairly sure he wants you within reach right now.

“I didn't have a home before,” he says eventually.

That's... new. And potentially dangerous. “What do you mean?”

“I used to change location every month. Easier to keep hidden like that.”

You’ve never given much thought to the flat. It seemed like a very  _Jim_ thing to do, taking up residence right in the centre of London, underneath everyone’s noses, without anyone ever realising. Changing from place to place would mean never really having the creature comforts he so adores, would mean constant stress and watchfulness. But he’s right, it would have been safer. No matter how careful you both are, all it would take was one person to follow you back here, and then...

“What changed?” you ask.

The corner of his mouth turns up in a slight smile. “I changed.”

You catch and hold a sigh. That’s it, probably, just an ambivalent comment and some broody staring, no real explanations, like he always -

“You came along.”

Or maybe not. “Sorry?”

He glances at you. “I let you in. First time you came here.  It was two days before I was planning to move, and you sat there, bleeding on my carpet, looking around with cow’s eyes, so very  _scared_ \- ”

“I wasn’t.”

He looks at you again. His memory might be scarily accurate for most things but you still remember exactly how you felt. And it’s important, that distinction, it matters that you weren’t. “I wasn’t scared. I kept thinking that I should be, that I was going to die, but... But I wasn’t.”

He bows his head. “Eager, then. Shaking with something you couldn’t even name. And I looked at you, and thought,  _I want that_. And then I looked at the room, the paintings, the view, and I thought,  _I want this too_.” He laughs. “Time to settle down. I was the right age for it, I suppose.”

“How old we- ”

“Twenty-seven.”

“Christ.” Three years younger than you. You never really thought about it, he’s always been this ageless eternal being, in your mind. In everyone’s mind. And bloody hell, that would mean that around the time he first started conquering London he must have been barely in his twenties. No wonder he wanted to stay invisible.

“You’re shocked,” he says, amused.

“No, just - surprised.” Another thought hits you and you snigger. “God, you must have loved that.”

“What?”

“The look on people’s faces when they realised this little jumped-up kid was the infamous Moriarty.”

His face turns perfectly blank for a few seconds - surprise. Not that he’d ever admit it, of course.

If only you could have met him then. Young and furious and taking over everything with brutal efficiency, while you were running around in Northern Ireland and Bosnia and Afghanistan, following orders from incompetent halfwits and laughing at everyone behind their backs, but too lazy to take charge yourself.

If you met your younger self today you’d probably punch him in the nose.

“But they learned,” Jim says.

You blink, back in the present. “That they did.”

“And they will again.”

He’s got dark circles under his eyes - odd, you thought he’d slept on the plane. Might be jetlag. Might be something else too.

You push off the window and stand behind him, one arm around his waist. His hand covers yours, nails pressing gently into the thin skin between your fingers. “It’s all kicking off now, Seb,” he says softly. “The board is set. Knight to F3.”

You tighten your grip and he leans back against your chest, watching the darkness. 

***

You wake up next morning to David Bowie. 

You curse and bury your head beneath the pillow. It's not exactly the first time Jim has got up at an unreasonably early hour to do something extremly _noisy_ , but that doesn't mean you've grown used to it.

You girt your teeth and manage to ignore it right up until it reaches the refrain - with Jim belting along at top volume, the obnoxious mad  _fuck -_ at which point you give up and get out of bed, going straight to the living room.

Jim is standing in front of the whitewashed wall, wearing one of his favourite suits and holding a marker in his hand. The diagram in front of him is already half-finished.

“ _Take a look at the la-aw ma-an, beating up the wrong guy_  – ”

“Do you  _have_ to do this at seven am?” you ask, running a hand through your hair.

He stops singing and shrugs. “I was awake, so why not?” He winks at you. “Didn’t wake you up, did I darling?”

“Fuck you,” you say, heading for the kitchen. Caffeine. You need a couple of gallons of coffee before you can deal with this.

“You did, if I recall correctly,” Jim say cheerfully. ”Get me a cup too, Seb.”

“No. No fucking caffeine when you’re like this.”

You turn down the volume. At least David Bowie is better than Kesha, whom he has recently discovered - you will never  _ever_  forget the image of Jim dancing along to  _Cannibal_ , hands covered in blood, laughing as the screams of the victim mingled with the beat.

When you wander back into the living room Jim has disappeared, and the diagram looks finished. It lacks the usual crossing-out and wriggly lines: it’s decisive, one point leading straight to the next, simple and clear. There’s your coded name, on the left, and then on the top something that you suspect is Irene Adler.

Adler, who’s currently lying low in LA, last you heard. She checks in occasionally, minimalistic text messages.  _Still not dead. Bored but alive. Found myself a pretty blonde to play with - rest is quiet. Still waiting._ Although you’re not exactly clear on what she’s waiting  _for_.

The door bangs open. Jim minces in with a huge ledger under his arm, whistling softly.

“I need you to explain something to me,” you say.

“When a man and a woman love each other very much - ”

“- they’ll probably end up cheating on each other anyway,” you say, not missing a beat.

“Cynic.”

“Realist. But it’s this that I’m wondering about.” You gesture with your cup to the diagram.

Jim drops the ledger on the table with a loud thud. “My code is a little bit over your head, Sebastian. If I wanted to explain that to you I would - ”

“Not the code. The plan.”

He puts his hands on the ledger and leans forwards. “What part of  _letting Mycroft Holmes capture me_  don’t you understand?”

“All of it?”

He cocks his head. You can practically see the thoughts rearranging themselves behind his eyes, being turned into easily digestible chunks so you can follow. “What part  _do_ you understand?” he asks.

“You need something from Holmes you can’t get anywhere else, I get that,” you say. Actually you don’t, but that’s probably one of those things you will never understand. “But why aren’t you there yet?”

“Because the Iceman isn’t an idiot. If I come too easily - don’t snigger, Sebastian, you’re not a child - he’ll be suspicious. This needs to be long-term. A nice slow build-up of threat.”

“And that’s what the plane was for, wasn’t it? And Burgess? The first hints.”

He throws you a sardonic look. “Glad to see you’re keeping up.”

“I’m not completely stupid, remember?”

“You do have your moments.” He starts tapping his fingers on the ledger. “So you see? Subtle. Not too obvious. It’s not going to be  _easy_ , luring the Iceman out of his lair.”

“Right.” You look over your shoulder at the diagram. “And Irene Adler? Is she part of this?”

He raises his eyebrow, looking almost impressed. “You  _have_ been paying attention, haven’t you? But yes, she is. I doubt it will be more than a few months before the expiry date of that code comes close, and then she can implicate Sherlock and I can wave that in front of the Iceman’s face.” He puts on a falsetto voice. “ _See how dangerous I am?”_

“ _I can even get to your brother_ ,” you add.

He nods, pleased. “With a bit of luck that will be the last push he needs.” He pulls out a chair and sits down, stretches his legs out in front of him. “But before that, we need to lay the groundwork. Any ideas?”

“Why, run out of ideas yourself?”

“The opposite. Go on, I want to hear yours. Convince me you’re more than just a pretty face, Seb.”

You roll your eyes. “I’m not your performing monkey.”

“Well, you kind of  _are_ , aren’t you?” he says, scrunching up his nose.

“Don’t push it.”

He leans back and folds his hands behind his head. “You know, sometimes I miss the time when you still wet yourself in fear every time I frowned at you.”

You smirk at him. “That only ever happened in your imagination. I told you, I - ”

“Yes, yes, I know, you’re a fearless warrior-person with no sense of self-preservation.  _Ideas_ , Seb. Tell me how to rattle the Iceman.”

“Fine. Er...” You drop down onto the sofa and take a sip of coffee. From the little you know about Mycroft he isn’t the type to be easily rattled. “Pick someone he’s meeting with. Preferably someone he feels responsible for, in some way. And then...” You look back at Jim. He’s smiling excitedly. “Well, then it all depends on how much of impression you want to make, doesn’t it? He likes things  _neat_ , so mess it up. Make it gory.”

“Oh, I do like it when you get creative,” Jim says, looking at you as if you’re a puppy who’s just performed a particularly clever trick.

“You’ve obviously rubbed off on me.”

“I obviously have. Alright, I’ll find a fresh-faced young spy for you to pull apart.” He flips the ledger open and runs his finger over the first page.

You crane backwards and take another look at the diagram. Adler’s name is connected to a fair few other squiggles, but...

“Wait,” you say.

“Hm?”

“If Irene Adler’s part of this...” You look back at him. “That means you’ve been planning this since, what, last May?”

He puts his hands down flat on the table. “Let’s say it’s been a work in progress for quite some time now.”

“That’s almost a year,” you say, staring at him. He’s just sitting there like it’s normal, like it’s nothing. “How can you - how can  _anyone_  plan that far ahead?”

He shrugs. “Improvisation. Flexibility. A thorough understanding of the human mind. Honestly, Seb, it isn’t - ”

“What’s it  _like_ , being you?”

He stops mid-sentence, surprised. “What?”

You wave a hand. “Seeing all those... those possibilities and plans and threads and fuck knows what else.  _Knowing_  all that.”

“It’s busy,” Jim says. His face has gone frozen, expressionless, the way it always does when you start talking about things that come too close. “Tiring, sometimes.” He shrugs. “It doesn’t matter.”

He goes back to his files, leaving you to marvel.

Some people can’t even plan for the next week. And Jim plots out something that spans ten months and several countries and three unpredictable geniuses and intelligence agencies and fuck knows what else. No wonder he needs to write it all down.

No wonder he has nightmares.

***

The campaign of terror against Mycroft Holmes starts with the death of Mark Quinn, a young up-and-coming star in MI-5, whispered to be one of Holmes’ protégés. His body is found crucified to the wall of the safehouse he was supposed to be hiding in, guts hanging out, nerves exposed, generally mutilated. It’s gruesome in a way that makes those paintings of medieval martyrs look pleasant, crass and vulgar and barbaric.

When the ambulance arrives his body is still warm, blood still flowing, and Frank Sinatra is playing at deafening volume.

_\- Wait till you're locked in my embrace, wait till I hold you near -_

You watch from the shadows as they come and get him, Jim standing by your side. One of the coppers is pushing frantically at the buttons of the sound system. Not that it’ll do anything, Jim fiddled with the wiring.

“Think Homes will take notice?” you ask, picking at your nails.

“Oh, I think he will, darling,” Jim smiles. “Yes,  we’ll have his attention now.”

-  _The best is yet to come, come the day you’re mine -_

***

An important deal with the FSB falls apart spectacularly after the Russian hostage is found dead in his cell, which of course has a few nasty consequences. Rumour has it the relations with the Russians are at their lowest point since the end of the cold war, that all the diplomatic work for last few years has been for nothing.

The week after that a senior civil servant - and old friend of Mycroft Holmes - is forced to resign when some highly questionable pictures turn up. It was supposed to be hushed up but  _somehow_ it got leaked to the press and smeared all over the tabloids, and the man retreats to his country home thoroughly disgraced.

Meanwhile another undercover agent goes missing, and her body is found back washed up on the sand in Blackpool, in a very bad shape. Her microphone is found embedded in the deepest wound in her stomach, YOU AINT SEEN NOTHING YET carved into her leg, because Jim does love his classics.

You wash the blood off your hands and strip out of your stained clothes and when Jim kisses you you're feeling something close to reverence. He's playing his top game, plan after plan after plan, daring and ridiculous and challenging and  _beautiful._

He laughs when you push him against the wall and fall to your knees, his hand in your hair. "You," you say, looking up at him, "are - are  _impossible_ _."_

He grins and jerks your chin up. "I most certainly am."

You lean your head against his hip and close your eyes. And to say that only a few years ago you thought him to be nothing but an ordinary criminal who was good at making up stories, without any real substance.

God, you know better now.

***

But of course challenges have their consequences.

“Someone was following me again,” you say as you come in, dripping with rain. Jim is at his laptop again, engineering yet another trap, no doubt.

He clucks his tongue. “Where did you lose them?”

“Regent's Park. This is starting to become a regular thing.” 

“I know. It’s good, it means he’s taking this seriously.”

You take your sodden coat off and hang it up to dry. “Ye-es, but it also means we’re  _being followed_.”

He gives you a look. “Oh, you can handle it. They’re just sniffing around everyone, not you specifically. I’d know if they were.”

“Still, I’m in the database now. They’ve got to realise I’m not your average gun for hire when they do a background check or something, right?”

“They would, if there was anything left to find,” he says absently.

You blink. “What?”

“I’ve erased your paper trail. Deleted you from the system.” He frowns at his screen and leans sideways to rifle through some papers. And pauses when he sees you stare. “Quite a while back, now,” he adds.

“What do you mean,  _erased_?”

He goes back to his screen. “Oh, you know. Accidents happen so easily...”

“Eton? The admittance forms and report cards and sports certificates- ”

“A malfunction of the water supply, the entire archive was flooded.”

“The army?”

“Your file got lost when they moved to a new building.”

“NHS?”

“System crash.” He puts his laptop aside and raises an eyebrow.

“I’m in Burke’s Peerage,” you say feebly.

“Yes, that’s the one thing I couldn’t get hold of. The paper version, at least.” He shrugs. “But as for the rest? You don’t exist. You’re a ghost.” He stands up and walks to the window.

A ghost.  _Moriarty’s Ghost_ , seems the rumours are truer than they could have imagined. Nothing left to trace. But why didn't he mention this before? You might not know every single last detail of Jim's projects but you do tend to have some idea about what he's working on, and yet you didn't notice anything about this at all. Which means he deliberately kept it a secret. His possessive streak playing up again, maybe. The control-thing.

You shake your head and go and stand at Jim’s shoulder, looking at the view.

“I can  _feel_ him worrying,” Jim says, eyes closed, head tipped back.

You glance at him. “Who, Holmes?”

“Hm. He’s close, oh so close. Won’t take long now.”

“Think he’ll snap?”

He grins and opens his eyes. “Oh, yes. Once Adler has played her part he’ll be on me before I can blink.” He yawns. “We just have to wait.”

***

Jim isn’t taking the waiting nearly as well he wants it to appear.

It only shows in the small things, the tics that pop up when he’s not paying attention, the noticeably fewer hours of sleep. The sex, which takes a decisive turn for the violent again, up to the point where you have to actively stop him from breaking something.

He rubs at his arm and glares at you. “Was that really necessary?” he asks.

“ _Yes_. Jesus, go take a cold shower or something, alright?” You roll your shoulder back and wince. No damage done, but Christ, that came close. Seems he remembered the things you taught him about weak spots and different kinds of holds.

“Why, can’t little Sebastian handle it when it gets a little rough?” He wipes his mouth, looking at you like you’re a trembling rabbit and he’s the fox.

You glare at him. “You want to fuck? Fine, I’m game. You want to actually murder me? Piss off.”

He scowls and lunges, going straight for your throat. You wrestle him underneath you, pin his hands above his head and keep his legs down with your knee.

“Ooh, getting  _bossy_?” He smirks and licks his lips, eyes hooded, pupils enlarged. “Get  _on_ with it, Seb, distract me.”

You cock your head. “Why d’you need distraction? I thought everything was going according to plan?”

“It is, but - ” He tries to pull his wrists free and you press him down again.

“Nerves? Stage fright? Is that it, Jim, afraid your performance won’t be up to standard?” He struggles again. He's got good at that, you almost lose your grip. “Slippery fucking weasel,” you growl, pinning his hand back.

“Are you going to  _do_  anything, Seb?” he asks, panting from the exertion. “Or are you just going to  _lie_ on me like a great  -  _mmf.”_

He’s edgy, but then again he’s always been highly-strung. And as for distraction, well, even Jim doesn’t think of work and planning when he’s got a tongue in his arse.

***

One of the very first things Jim taught you when you started to live with him was caution. Never let anyone close to the house, make sure you’re never being followed, watch your back. It’s become second nature by now, although you've been dodging more tails in the last few weeks than you did in the six months before. Like Jim said, it means his plans are working, but it's bloody annoying. You keep expecting Mycroft Holmes to pop up from behind some corner with a gun and a pair of handcuffs. Not that the bastard would ever get his hands dirty in person. He just sends out his little swarm of spies, although you’d think he would be starting to run out, considering how you’ve been running through them. The recruiting agents must be working overtime, replacing all the recently-deceased. And recently-traumatised.

You go down on one knee a few houses away from the flat and pretend to tie your shoelaces, looking around to spot anything suspicious.

That Qatari prince is getting into his car, ready to leave - no threat there. A woman passes you with a flirtatious look, sky-high stilettos and manicured nails, next-door neighbour’s new mistress. Very new, if she hasn’t learned to ignore you yet.

You can just about imagine her, lying in bed with that fat sweaty fuck of a man, and him whispering _keep away from those two in number forty-two, they’re dangerous_.

You straighten up again. It’s not like you’re bad neighbours, is it? The walls are soundproofed and the occasional odd smell hardly ever leaves the building. No, they really have no reason to...

_Threat_.

You keep walking, hand in your pocket, and try to pinpoint what it is that set off your alarms. Movement from the corner of your eye, but looking back would mean alerting a potential tail, so – Ah, perfect, a mirror just outside a garage. You glance at it as you pass. The swish of a coat, a hand moving. Could be just coincidence. You cross the street and turn, casually.

And your eyes meet those of the man at the other side of the street.  _Caught_.

The man’s eyes widen and he swallows, turning around quickly. But not quickly enough, of course. You vault over the bonnet of a car and sprint after him, it’s dark enough to keep cover. The spy starts running as well but you’ve got a headstart and he hasn’t got a chance.

You catch up with him before he turns the corner and slam him against the wall. “You’ve made a fucking  _huge_  mistake, mate,” you hiss in his ear.

He rams his elbow in your stomach and tries to sweep your feet from under you, and you sidestep only just in time. But before you can close the distance he kicks out high and smashes his foot into your side, just above your hip, right where nine years ago several ounces of metal embedded themselves in your flesh. It  _hurts_ , in that too-sharp fiery way of damaged nerves.

You double over and he almost gets away but he  _can’t_ , not now he’s seen you and the flat, and you tear off after him, side burning. You manage to catch him again, throw him against the wall and get an arm around his neck before he can take advantage. You cover his mouth with your other hand, tighten your hold, and after a few seconds he goes limp and you find your phone.

Jim answers after two rings. “Sebastian. What’s wrong.”

“Spook. Outside our fucking  _door_.”

He breathes in deeply. “Did you get him?”

“Yeah, of course I got him, did you think I’d waste my time calling you if I was still chasing the bastard?”

“Take him to the basement. We’ll deal with him there.”

You shove your phone back in your pocket and lean the spy on your shoulder. To a casual passer-by you look just like someone helping a drunk friend home,  _nothing suspicious, kindly move along_.

Once inside the building you haul him up into a fireman’s carry and get him to the basement. You don’t come here often, it’s where Jim keeps the wine and the bigger electric equipment. And the occasional prisoner.

You string him up by the wrists and go through his pockets. Phone, wallet, knife. No guns. No microphones.

The door creaks open. “Is that him?” Jim asks from behind you.

You look over your shoulder. “No, that’s just some other random bastard I grabbed off the streets because I thought it would be funny - ”

“Sebastian,” he chides.

You whirl around. “He was  _right outside_ , Jim. If I hadn’t caught him - ”

“But you did.”

“If I hadn’t he would’ve gone straight back to his fucking superiors.” You throw the phone at Jim, a little harder than is necessary. He almost drops it. “They could’ve laid in wait the next day, break in and come and take the whole lot, all the fucking files, your whole empire gone in two fucking days, and - ”

“ _Sebastian_.” He cocks his head. “Are you panicking?”

“I’m - ” You take a deep breath. “I’m just taking this seriously.”

“Calm down.” The corner of his mouth goes up in a little smile. “You think I wouldn’t know if they had found out where I lived? That I would let them in my home?”

“I don’t - ”

“We would have been gone before they arrived, everything portable removed and the rest blown up, and they would be straight back to square one. It  _wouldn’t have mattered_ , don’t you see, Sebastian? Now,” he nods at your prisoner. “Wake him up and see what we can find out, hm?”

***

Turns out he’s a field agent for MI-5,  _proper_ MI-5, one of the James Bond ones. Young emotionally stunted borderline-psychopaths who are plucked straight from Oxford or Cambridge and given a gun and an earpiece and something to believe in, who end up more like weapons than human beings.

The irony is not lost on you.

Jim puts the spy's phone back in his pocket. “I’ve sent a fake status report, so they won’t realise there’s something wrong until a couple of days have passed.”

“And do they know he was here?”

“No. Apparently this was unplanned.”

Which is something, at least. You lean your head back against the wall. “So we still need to find out how he knew to come to Knightsbridge.”

Jim grins at you. “Exactly. Think you can make him squeal some more, Sebastian?”

You snort and start opening the triple lock on the cellar door.

Being a proper agent means he’s trained to resist torture. Not that they can ever really  _train_ you for that, as you found out the hard way, but it still means that he’s more work than your average prisoner. It takes more than just frowning and waving your knife a bit.

He looks up as you and Jim come back in. “So it is true,” he says. His voice has taken on that sleepy vague tone that people get when they’re high on their own endorphins and pain. He’s also lisping a bit, but missing teeth will do that to a person.

“What’s that?” you ask, cocking your head.

He’s shaking, but he still meets your eyes straight on. “You. Thought you were just a story, like the other ones. Didn’t think you were real.” He spits blood on the floor.

You cross the room and pull his head back by his hair. “Know different now, don’t you?” you hiss, your nails raking over the cuts and burns and bruises, and he convulses against you.

“Sebastian,” Jim says softly.

You step back. Jim strolls closer, hands in his pockets, casual as you like. The prisoner is eyeing him warily. Even from where you’re standing you can feel the  _threat_  Jim’s exuding.

The spy is nowhere near breaking point. You know from experience, from your own and from interrogating others, that it would take a lot more before he even starts to think about giving in. But it’s  _Jim_ , so when he leans his cheek against the spy’s and murmurs in his ear, the man shudders and leans against him and whispers something back.

“What did he say?” you ask.

“Driver,” Jim says, studying the spy with open curiosity. He has closed his eyes, tears running down his face, sobbing quietly. Broken.

“ _Told_  you those were a risk.”

“No one likes a know-it-all, Sebastian. Give me your knife.”

He raises his hand, palm up, and you hand him the knife. Jim tilts his head, still looking at the spy. The man opens his eyes, shaking, beyond desperate. He stares back at Jim, motionless.

The air is heavy with tension.

And then Jim pulls the man’s head back and slits his throat in one vicious movement. It’s a deep efficient cut, severing the carotid, and the blood sprays out in that over-the-top horror movie way that’s almost too gruesome to be real.

You gape. He doesn’t generally kill people himself, and definitely not like  _that_.  

Jim wipes the blood from his face with an irritated frown. “Get him to the second floor, we’ll need to dispose of him.” He catches your stare and smirks. “Sebastian. Stop gawping and do as you’re told.”

You shake off the shock. “Right. And, er, what about the driver?”  

He hands the knife back to you and you clean it on your t-shirt. It’s ruined beyond recovery anyway. “I’ll track them down," Jim says, "you can go eliminate them.”

“Them?” You look up from the knife. “It’s just the one who talked, isn’t it?”

“Ye-es, but there are others still running around that know too much. No risks.” He looks up and smiles at you. Jim’s smiles never look entirely normal but with his face and suit streaked with blood it reaches a whole new level of wrongness. “See? I’m being careful. You can stop dithering now.”

“Fine. I’ll get him up, then, shall I?”

Jim hums and wriggles his fingers. He looks quite fascinated by the blood on his hands.

“What happened to not getting your hands dirty, anyway?” you ask wryly.

“Hm? Oh. Exception to every rule.” He takes his handkerchief out and starts wiping his hands, turning to leave. “Hurry up, I want you in the shower in ten,” he says over his shoulder. 

"Got it."

The door falls closed behind him. You look down at the corpse.

“Should’ve told the recruitment officers to go fuck themselves, mate,” you tell him.

After all, it’s what you did.

***

When you get to the bathroom Jim is already in the shower. He pulls you in impatiently the second your clothes are off. The water is searing hot, but when you reach out to turn it cooler he snatches your wrist and pins it to the tiles. “Don’t, I like it this way.”

“Hm.” You take his neck and kiss him. “Did it get you hard, killing a man?”

He laughs and bites at your throat. “Don’t be ridiculous, it’s just a chore. No more emotional significance than  _\- hng_ \- than boiling a lobster.”

You push him gently out of the way and stand under the spray, washing the blood of your face. “Then why?”

“Why not?” He puts his arm around your chest from behind and licks at the edge of your shoulderblade.

“Cause that’s what you’ve got me for. To do the dirty work.”

He pushes at your shoulder and you turn around, lean back against the tiles. “Worried you’re becoming obsolete?” he asks, smiling.

“Am I?”

He wraps his fingers around your cock and smirks. “Some things one can never do on one’s own. So no, you’ll always have your uses.”

“Good to - to know.” You put his hand on his stomach and slide down. His hand on your cock and your hand on his, like some sort of sexual Mexican standoff.

He looks down and up again, raises his eyebrows. “Race you for it?”

“That’s hardly fair.” You look down, entranced by the way his fingers move, the slow wet drag of his palm. “You, erm, you -  _fuck_.”

“I fuck?”

He rubs the pad of his thumb along the underside and you groan. “You’ve got an unnaturally large amount of self-control, is what I’m saying,” you manage.

“And you haven’t?”

You look up sharply, but then he changes pace from slow and languorous to hurried and rough and hard, and fuck that feels good. It’s hard to keep concentrating on your own hand when he’s doing  _that_ , and then he pulls you down and bites your lip and you lose it.

He leans back and smirks. “Lost.”

“Yeah?” you say, still panting. “I’m not the one with the leaking hard-on, though.”

“Well, what are you waiting for then?”

You wrap your left hand around the base of his cock, slide up and pull the foreskin back, and run your right index finger lightly over the exposed head. He shudders.

There are a thousand-and-one ways to do this and it wouldn’t surprise you if you have, at one point or another, done them all. Jim’s preferences change from day to day, sometimes second to second, and he’s hellishly difficult to predict.

You do it again, two fingers and your thumb, stroking slowly up and down, a ghost-pressure that nevertheless feels intense - you know, you’ve been on the receiving end. His hand clamps around your wrist.

“Want me to stop?”

“Stop and I’ll nail your balls to the wall,” he growls.

You move your fingers up, down, to the underside. And then, with a definite jolt of sadism, you curl your fingers and press your nails up.

Jim curses, jerks, and - yes, comes all over your hand and stomach, good thing you’re in the shower. He pushes you off and leans back against the tiles, eyes closed, head tipped back, breathing hard.

You hold your hand under the spray and wash his come and the last remains of the spy’s blood away. “You know,” you say thoughtfully, “most men I’ve fucked would have kicked me out of bed for that.”

“What, using your nails?” He opens one eye and shrugs. “I’m obviously not like most men.”

“Understatement of the year, that.”

He frowns, not answering. His eyes have fallen to your side, where a large blossoming bruise is adorning your ribcage, scars standing out against the reddened skin.

“Bastard got a hit in,” you say, watching as his fingers skim over the skin surrounding it.

“Losing your edge?” Jim asks.

You shrug. “They’re elite, they’re supposed to be good. And I was still better.”

He gives it a prod. First nothing, and then again that sudden burning pain. Could turn out to be serious, better keep an eye on it. 

He turns away, which is odd: usually he likes playing with your bruises, but this time he seems annoyed by it, mouth thin, fingers curling into a fist. 

"Something wrong?" you ask.

He shakes his head and steps out of the shower. You step back under the spray, turn the water a little cooler.

What could have upset him? The idea of being discovered, maybe. His calm might have been fake, an attempt to reassure you. You're still feeling a little uneasy yourself as well, even though the problem's sorted, threat averted. It's more than just residual worry, though, it feels more like you're forgetting something important, which isn't a pleasant thought.

You turn the water off and step out, take a towel. The mirror has steamed up and all you can see of your reflection is the side of your ribcage and the bruise. You blink, and for a second you have a perfect image of Jim,ribcage bruised and bleeding as well, doubled over in pain. Where th hell did that come from? It's been ages since he got hurt like that, and -

Of course.

You put your hands flat on the marble sink and breathe out, slowly. He's going to be captured, isn't he? Interrogated, and you know all too well that interrogation is only a politically correct way of saying torture. In a few weeks time it'll be him, being torn apart like the spy in the basement. Turnabout.

Christ, why didn't you realise sooner? But maybe you did, maybe you just shut it out, refused to acknowledge it. Because fuck knows it's not a thought you relish.

Although maybe you shouldn't worry. Jim likes pain, after all. Both his and other people’s, that’s just a fact, the same way he likes bespoke suits and expensive sunglasses and Ella Fitzgerald. You yourself have put him through a couple of things that would make most people beg for mercy while he just laughed. Maybe torture is just a walk in the park for him.

But there’s pain and there’s  _pain_.

You dress and go back to the bedroom. Jim is sprawled on the bed, playing with the spy’s phone. You sit in a chair nearby and watch him, try to imagine it. Someone else’s hands on him. Chained and beaten, unable to escape. Laughing - because he would, he would mock them, would never just  _take_ it. Being forced to -

“You’re staring,” Jim says, not looking up.

“Am I?”

“Yes.” He frowns at his screen. “Stop it. It’s annoying.”

“I’m just thinking.”

“About?” You don’t reply and he looks up, frowns. “Seb?”

“Have you ever been tortured before?” you ask, straight to the point.

He freezes for a whole two seconds before he flashes you a grin. “I'm surprised you have to ask,” he says lazily.

“That's not what I meant.” He raises an eyebrow at you. “You know what I – Look, there's a difference between liking it a bit rough in the bedroom and being fucking waterboarded. I know, personal experience.”

“Do you really know me so little, Sebastian?” he says, amused. “Do you honestly think  _they_  can make me talk?”

“You think I give a fuck about whether you talk or not? I just want you back in one piece, that’s all.”

He cocks his head and looks at you like he did earlier, when you were starting to panic. “They’re government. They have rules they have to obey.”

“You have no idea, do you?” You stand up. “What it  _means,_  being tortured.”

His mouth goes thin. “This isn’t – ”

“It’s being locked into cell for days on end,” you say. “No toilet, no bed, just hard concrete. Constant too-bright lights. Non-stop noise until you’re not sure if it’s just in your head or not.” You take a step closer. “Being starved. Having bits of you smashed to an unrecognisable bloody  _pulp_.”

He smiles tiredly. “Are you worried about me?”

“ _Yes_ , you fucking - ” You bite your tongue. He snaps his fingers and you go to your knees in front of him.

“And you’ve only realised this now?” he asks, and he still looks more amused than anything else. “I know you can be a bit slow sometimes, Sebastian, but really...”

“Maybe I was in fucking denial, so what?”

He sighs and puts his hand on your nape. “It’ll be fine,” he says impatiently.

“Really,” you say, sceptically. He raises an eyebrow and you look down, trying to keep composed. “I can’t help it, alright? I  _am_  fucking worried. I don’t like the idea of you being there while I’m here doing - ”

“Nothing? Hardly. In fact, I’d be surprised if you had time to worry about me at all.”

You frown. “What do you mean?”

“It  _means,_ Sebastian dear, that you’re going to act as my replacement while I’m gone.” He slides his fingers over your throat to your chin and tilts your head up. “When the cat’s away, the mice will play. If they find out I’m gone, people might start getting  _ideas_. I need you to keep up the pretence. To run things for me, until I get back.”

“Me? But I’m - ”  _Run things_ , like it’s a shop. But Jim’s projects are insanely complex, and diverse, and there are dozens of them and you wouldn’t even know where to start. “I’m not sure I can.”

“Oh, you can. I have faith in you, Sebastian. You wouldn’t disappoint me, now, would you?”

Your mouth twists. “Bastard.”

“So I’d start reading up and asking any questions you might have while I’m still here, darling.”

You stand up. “Fine, fine. Where do I start?”

“Study, the files on the desk.” He turns away, back to the phone. You leave him be and go to the study, find the files and settle down on the couch in the living room.

It’s only there that you realise how efficiently he derailed the conversation.

***

Jim is going to leave.

It’s a constant worry at the back of your mind, like a pebble in a shoe.  _He’s going to leave_.  _You’re going to be alone_.

Fuck knows it’s not the first time, it's not like you've been joined at the hip for the last four years. But even when you were on the other side of the world, he kept in touch. Phone calls, messages, webcams. He might not be near but he was still present.

You seriously doubt he'll have access to a webcam in prison.

And apart from the fact that he's going to  _be tortured_ , there's a more personal worry. ‘Cause you might have been Jim's second in command for years now, but that doesn't mean you can just take his place like that.

You're studying like you’ve never done before, going through Jim's files as quickly as you can, making your own notes. Eventually you pin up a map of London to the wall and start annotating it. Not that it helps,  _nothing_ of it makes any sense. There are loyalties and factions and feuds, territories and turf wars… A few streets in Brixton are basically the Gaza strip in terms of ownership debates, only it’s less diplomats and drones and more stabbings and hit-and-runs.

But it all depends on which layer you are. It’s like there are half a dozen different Londons: one for the petty criminals, one for the big time dealers, one for the so-called businessmen... And that’s not counting the hundreds of free agents.

“I am never ever going to understand this,” you decide eventually.

“That’s because you’re doing it wrong,” Jim says. He’s been watching you work with a definite air of mockery. For him this comes naturally, of course. It must be like watching a toddler tackle quantum physics.

“Of course I am.” You throw a look over your shoulder. “Care to elaborate?”

He sighs and comes to stand at your side. “You’re looking at the individual elements, but you need to see the patterns. Like - ” He waves his hand. “Like seeing shapes in the stars. Constellations.”

You tilt your head and try to see it from a different light. But the little dots stay stubbornly incomprehensible. “Sorry, still don’t see it.”

He huffs and goes to the window. He’s been sombre, withdrawn, for a whole week now. The excitement of the open challenge has mostly faded, and it’s left him in a bad mood. Not the shouting-and-fighting bad mood but the other kind, the one that leaves him hollow-eyed and morose.

It’s getting on your nerves, to be honest. You’d almost prefer him to get aggressive, at least he _reacts_ to you then.

“You really need to sort this out, Seb,” he says, as if you’re being slow about this on purpose.

“This might’ve been easier if you had been open about this from the start, you know,” you say, more than a little irritated.

“Really.”

You look over your shoulder. “Yeah, really. We’ve been over this, remember? You can tru-” You stop yourself. “I work better if I know what I’m doing.”

“You work best if you just do as I tell you,” he shoots back. His tone is starting to swerve, mocking again, but not the amused kind. The vicious cutting one, meant to hurt.

“Why?” you ask. “Can’t I know that, at least?”

“No. Get on with it.”

“Right.” You grit your teeth and turn to leave. “When I get back.”

“Where are you going?” he asks immediately. It comes out strangely suspicious, as if he’s expecting you to sneak off somewhere in secret.

“Doctor,” you say curtly. “My hip’s been playing up again. Don’t think it’s serious but I thought it better to check either way.”

He frowns. “You didn’t tell me.”

You - No, you didn’t. You made the appointment yesterday and then it just slipped your mind. Strange, although now that you think of it, usually Jim notices it himself when you’re physically off your game.

You shrug, annoyed. “It’s nothing.”

“I don’t like it when you keep things from me, Sebastian,” he says, voice going snide.

You look over your shoulder and snap, “Yeah? Well, I don’t either.”

The silence  _rings_ , like just after a rifle shot.

You shouldn’t have said that. Even if it’s true, it’s overstepping your bounds, as if you have any right to decide what he should or shouldn’t share. But you can’t take it back and his face has gone strangely tight, as if he's locking something away.

“You’ll just have to suffer through it, I’m afraid,” he says icily.

“Yeah? I thought that was exactly what I’ve been doing for the last few months.” You turn and leave the room.

You don’t quite slam the door, but it comes close.

***

“Boyfriend trouble?”

You give your doctor a look. “You might be the only person who’d dare to say something like that, did you know?” you say.

She snorts, obviously unimpressed. “That wasn’t an answer. Did you beat each other up again?”

“No-o, not this time. But he’s being... erm,  _difficult_.”

“Really?” She raises her eyebrows. “He always seemed like a peach to me. Alright, take your kit off and let’s have a look.”

You give her a heavy-lidded look. “You might want to rephrase that, don’t want me to get any ideas.”

“Dream on, love,” she shoots back. “You’re a bit too muscular for my tastes.”

You laugh and unbutton your trousers. “Like the small skinny ones, eh?”

“Something we have in common.”

You drape your trousers over the chair, take your shirt off as well, and stand up straight. She eyes the bite marks on your shoulder but refrains from comment. After all, she’s seen you mostly-naked often enough to realise your sex life isn’t exactly conventional.

“Got into a fight about a week ago,” you say. “I think it hit the nerve or something. Literally, not figuratively.”

She hums and prods at the old scars criss-crossing your side and hip. “And apart from that, done any strenuous activities lately?”

“You could say that, yes.”

“Unusual movements?”

You smirk down at her. “I did have my knees next to my ears at one point. But, to be honest, that isn’t really unusual anymore.”

She straightens up and gives you a thoroughly unimpressed look. “Are you trying to make me blush?”

“No, if I wanted to do that I’d go into detail. Like how he - ”

“Doomed to fail, son,” she cuts you off. “I used to work at A&E, any innocence I had left was thoroughly shattered after seeing all the things people shove up their arses. Raise your leg.”

You bend your leg and wince as the joint protests. “Hurts a bit. And at least he has never done that.”

She runs her thumb over the bone. “What, sent you here to extract a carrot from your lower intestine? I almost wish he had, it’d be less disturbing than some of the other shit he’s pulled on you.” She steps back and turns to disinfect her hands. “But you know what they say, it takes all sorts. You can put your clothes back on now.”

You get your trousers back on. “No serious damage?”

“Don’t think so. Give it a few days of rest, try not to put too much strain on it, and if it’s still aching in a week I’ll send you to have a few scans taken.” She turns back and grins at you. “Do you need a doctor’s note?  _No creative fucking for five days? Doctor prescribes missionary position?”_

You laugh. “No, thanks, I’m fine. Although, I, erm...”

She raises an eyebrow. “That’s the first time I’ve ever seen you sheepish and I’ve tested you for STD’s. What is it?”

“Jim.” God, this is hard. You don’t want to talk about him to relative stranger, it feels like betrayal. You shrug your shirt on and concentrate on the buttons. “Do you think he’s - ”

“I can't discuss other patients with you,” she says sharply.

You give a bark of laughter. “Really?  _Now_  you're rediscovering your ethics?”

“I might be a bit lenient when it comes to some things but son, trust me, I still have rules. And one of them is confidentiality.”

“Bully for you.”

She folds her arms. “What is it that you wanted to know, then?”

“He... He's planning something and it's worrying me. I just...” You run a hand through your hair. “You know he's unstable. I live with him, I've seen him have, have moods or bad days or depressive episodes, whatever. And I think I've been dealing with them alright for most of the time, but I – I need to know if there's anything I can do.”

“Really?” she asks, looking surprised for once.

“Yeah, really,” you say, frowning. “Is it that hard to believe?”

“No-o, I just didn’t think… You really care for him, don’t you?”

“What the fuck's got  _that_ to do with anything?” You take your jacket from the chair, almost toppling it. "Look, if you're just going to stand there and spout bullshit, I might as well - "

She raises her hands in apology. "Sorry, you're right, none of my business. Alright. You want advice, yeah?"

You nod. "Whatever you've got."

She cocks her head and studies you. “I can give you the textbook answer,” she says slowly, “that social support, and especially of a partner, is an important factor. That giving him space and listening, and taking care of the practicalties for him and generally being accepting are all things that can help, and that’s all true. Although the easiest thing would be to simply ask him what you can do to help.”

You look at her from beneath your brows. “And you think he’ll answer that?”

“Good point. But...” She visibly hesitates. “The best possible advice I can give you? Self-care. Don’t let yourself get dragged down too.”

You put yor jacket on and turn to her. “Don’t worry, I won’t.”

“You’ve come this far, haven’t you?”

You shake her hand. Her palm is warm and dry against yours. “I have.”

She gives you a tired smile. “Good luck with it.”

***

When you get back Jim is sitting on the floor, legs bent, back against the window. You drop down next to him. He doesn't react, but he doesn't push you away either.

“And?” he says after a while.

“Nothing serious, probably. I have to go back if it doesn't stop in a few days.”

He nods. “Good.”

“Yeah.” You rub your neck. “Look, sorry about earlier,” you say, a little uneasily. “I'm not – I've been on edge, lately, and it makes me snappy.”

“Because you're worried.”

“Yes.”

He licks his lips. “I know what I'm doing, Seb. There's no need to be.”

“I  _know_ that, it isn't a question of trust.”

“Then what is it?” He rolls his head and watches you. You struggle to find words, come up blank.

“You look tired,” you say instead.

“That, Sebastian, is because I  _am_.”

“Then go to sleep.”

He gives a strange awkward shrug. “Can't. Thinking.”

“Yeah?” You smile. “I bet I can make you stop thinking.” You get up and offer him a hand up.

_Distracting your partner with sex_ is probably not a clinically advised way of dealing with this, but then again Jim has always been a special case. And it has worked before. “Come on. Let’s flood you with endorphins and - what’s the other one again?”

“Oxytocin,” he says. He takes your hand and you pull him up.

“Right, that one. That’ll shut you up for a while, don’t you think?”

He leans against you and you drag him to the bedroom.

***

He undresses as quickly as he can and flops down on the bed, loose-limbed, eyes heavy-lidded. For once his body isn't cooperating, cock limp against his thigh.

You pause, shirt half unbuttoned. “You do want this, don't you?” you ask.

He smiles. “Oh, the mind is willing enough. But there's only so much sleep you can skip before things like this start to happen.” He yawns and runs his hands over his face. “But like you said, I need something to distract me. And – ” He grins, eyes your crotch. “You seem eager enough for the both of us.”

“You know me, always prepared.” You shrug your shirt off and start on your trousers. “Anything in particular you want?”

“No athletics.” He's looking rather intently at your hands, and you pause again, fingers on your belt.

“Should I put on some bass-heavy music? Find a pole to swing around?”

“Now that I would like to see. You'd look  _fetching_ in a garter and high heels, darling.”

“Don't get any ideas.” You shimmy out of your trousers and underpants and kneel down on the end of the bed. He still isn't stirring, cock sad and soft. You run a hand over his hip to his thigh and smile up at him. “I feel a little insulted.”

“Less talking, more –  _ah_ , that's better.”

You look up at him through your eyelashes, lips stretched around him. After all those years you've got this down to an art, and luckily he starts responding soon enough. It's an interesting sensation, feeling him harden against your tongue. Nice, in an odd way, especially combined with his hand in your hair. Makes you feel appreciated.

Maybe this counts as make-up sex. No better way of saying sorry than sucking someone off.

Once he's fully hard you pull off and push at his hip. “Turn around.”

“I told you – ”

“No athletics, I remember. On your side.”

He grumbles but does as he's told. You crawl up, press a kiss against his shoulderblade – too outlined, he hasn't been eating well – and settle in behind him. His hand pats behind him, blindly finding your thigh. You run your hand over his arm and reach for his cock. He gives a tiny twitch when your fingers close around him.

You can’t see his face like this, but that’s pretty much the only disadvantage. There’s something _comfortable_ about holding him like this, seeing the muscles of his shoulders and back contract whenever you move your hand, feeling the movement of his waist underneath your arm, his palm warm and heavy on your leg.

You go slow, twisting your wrist at every upstroke. He gives a contented little sigh. “You have become good at this, haven't you?” he mumbles.

You snuggle a little closer and push up onto your elbow, watch his face. His eyes are closed, and he looks a great deal less tense already. Well done you. 

“Lots of learning experiences,” you say. You lie down again, nudge your nose against the back of his neck. His hand strokes over your thigh. You lean your forehead against his shoulder.

It's moments like this that keep you going when the bad patches crop up. 'Cause you can't do this,  _feel_ him like this, without realising just how deep his trust in you goes. Letting you this close when he's this vulnerable, allowing you to try and help him...

"Stop thinking," he mutters, elbowing you in the stomach.

You laugh and nip at his shoulder. "Sorry."

You twist your hand again and he gasps, pushing his hips forward. His grip on your leg goes tight. You don’t change pace, just keep your strokes slow and steady until he spills over your hand and onto the mattress.

Wet patch. Damn. At least the bed is big enough to avoid it.

You roll away onto your back, give him room, listen to his breathing slowing down. It's starting to get dark outside, and the sunlight that reaches the room is warm and golden. Combined with the muffled noises coming though the open window it makes this all feel a little unreal. In a good way, though, as if you're separated from the rest of the world.

You turn your head and watch the slow movement of Jim's ribcage, up and down with each breath. Has he fallen asleep? Either way, he isn't paying any attention, which means you're left to your own devices. You reach for your cock.

“No,” Jim says from beside you. How the hell did he know that? He's got his back to you.

He rolls onto his side and leans on his elbow, watching you. “Did you think I would neglect you?” he asks, with a little cluck of his tongue.

“I – It  _has_ happened before.”

“I don’t intend to this time. Lie still.” He shifts, getting a little closer. He’s looming over you and since he won’t let you touch him it feels a bit strange. Like you’re a sacrifice, laid out before him.

He takes your cock, hand warm and firm around you, copies your earlier movements. You close your eyes and smile. “Copycat.”

“Well, if it’s proven if it’s effectiveness…” he says, leaning closer.

“Can you try to sound a little less… _scientific_ about this?”

He chuckles, his breath warm against your face. “I could, but I think you rather like it.”

“Point taken.” You raise your hand and find his neck, eyes still closed. He leans in and kisses you, his hand still going up and down. You bite his lip and he smiles.

It’s hard to remember why you were angry, earlier.

His free hand goes to your hair, follows the line of your jaw before taking your chin and pulling you in for another slow, sloppy kiss. You're feeling too floaty to do anything but lying still, like he told you, letting him take you.

You make a small noise and he chuckles, kisses your cheek, your throat. "Almost there?" he asks.

"Yes," you hiss. Your free hand comes up and you cradle the back of his skull, feeling your orgasm build. He speeds up, just a little, and the sudden change sends you over the edge. You dig your nails into his neck as you come, eyes squeezed shut, your mouth slack against his.

He stays close for a bit, cheek resting against yours. You run your hand over his back, fingers splayed over his ribs, happy just to have him close.

After a minute or two he pulls your hand from his neck and moves away a little. You open your eyes and watch him. He looks calm as well, relaxed. Amazing what a good shag can do to a person.

Strange to think he once felt uneasy about this. What was it he said again?  _It didn't make sense._

"Seb."

You blink. He's frowning down at you. "Yes?"

"Where are you?" he asks.

"Melbourne."

"Ah." He lies back down and covers his eyes with his hand. "Go on then. Ask."

You chew your lip and try to think of the right words. "That - that thing you said. About sex. Is it - do you still think that?" 

He stays silent, doesn't move. It's a dangerous question, you know that, but he gave you permission to ask, didn't he? Although he might still ignore you.

“No, it isn't true," he says at last. "Not anymore.”

“Right. Just curious.”

He traces your face, studying you. Fuck knows why he still feels the need, it's not like you've got anything left to hide from him. 

“You make sense,” he adds quietly, but before you can go into that he rolls back onto his side, turning his back to you. Conversation closed.

You give his shoulder a squeeze and close your eyes.

***

The next few weeks are insanely busy, and before you know it it’s June, the sun is out, and the tourists seem to have multiplied overnight. They keep out of the more upscale areas, luckily enough, but there’s swarms of them in the centre. Plodding mindlessly behind a shouty guide, pointing and yelling at the Big Ben, crushing by-passer’s toes beneath their huge suitcases… It’s like they’re doing everything to be as annoying as possible.

One of them bumps into you and mumbles a giggling apology in something that barely even sounds like English. You snarl at her and she hurries along, smile wiped away. 

“I swear I’m going to punch the next one who asks me to take their picture,” you say to Jim.

He smiles. “That wouldn’t very nice, would it?”

“They shouldn’t treat the damn city as an amusement park, then.” The masses of tourists are more than just annoying, though. No better disguise than a naff hat and a camera, after all. Anyone could hide in those crowds. It's making you a little jumpy.

“What would it take to convince you to blow up the London Eye?” you ask, glowering at yet another group of twenty-something girls.

No reply. You turn around to see him standing still, holding his phone. You scan the surroundings quickly, looking for any sort of threat, but there's nothing you can see.

Jim tilts his head up and blows a raspberry at the Big Ben. Several people give him odd looks, but he doesn't seem to notice. He slips the phone back in his pocket and walks on, with a definite bounce in his step.

“You gonna explain that?” you ask mildly.

“Adler finally delivered,” he says, sounding smug. “It's Holmes' turn now. God, I love it when the Iceman slips up. He won't ignore me anymore, now.”

“And Adler?”

He looks at you from above his shades. “I imagine she got what she wanted. Why, do you miss her?”

“Not really, to be honest.” You smirk at him. “One manipulative sadist is already more than I can handle.”

He grins and slips his hand in your back pocket.

It must be a strange sight, two professional-looking thirty-something men acting like a lovesick teenage couple. A couple of years ago, this probably would have bothered you. Now your only reaction is to sling an arm around his waist in return.

***

_\- I'm a shooting star leaping through the skies -_

You jerk awake in surprise. Who the hell plays Queen in the middle of the - Ah, right, Jim’s ringtone.

“Phone.” You poke Jim in the ribs and he waves a hand.

“Wstfgl,” he says, head buried in his pillow.

You roll your eyes. “ _Fine_.” You clamber over him, planting a knee in his side in the process, and lean off the bed. His jacket is lying discarded on the floor - for someone so obsessed with clothes he can be really careless with them sometimes - and after a bit of digging around you find his phone. You roll onto your back and check the screen: one of your moles in MI-5. You take a deep breath and try to suppress your apprehension.

_\- there’s no stopping me –_ “Yeah?”

“Is this...”

“Yes it is,” you say impatiently. “What is it?”

“Irene Adler.” And that's enough to wake you up completely. You sit up and next to you Jim rolls over, running his hands over his face. “Her phone's been hacked, she's on the run.”

“She’s... Say that again.”

Jim raises his eyebrow at you. You shake your head.

“Her phone. It’s our- erm, the government’s now, all her information is accessible. She ran. Should I - ”

“Don't do anything. Keep out of it. And Beringer, remember what happens if you don't play along, alright?”

“Yes, sir.”

You end the call.

“Irene Adler, I assume?” Jim asks, voice scratchy with sleep.

“Yeah.” You look down at him. “Her code got broken.”

“Really? Oh well. It doesn't matter now, she's served her purpose.” He yawns. “Gave the Iceman a good scare.”

“And that's it? The information - ”

“I've been feeding them information for months now, this is hardly different.”

You lie back down on the pillows. “So how come she's slipped up? What went wrong?”

“Don't know, don't particularly care.  I suspect she got over-involved.” He rolls over. “People often do. I can't imagine why.”

You can. You know all about obsession making you take stupid risks, or what else do you call propositioning a known psychopath? And if Sherlock Holmes really is similar to Jim...

Jim kicks the sheets back and rolls on top of you, leaning on his elbows. “I'm awake now. Want to help me get back to sleep?”

“Hypothetically, what would happen if I said no?” you ask.

He leans down, making you go cross-eyed in an attempt to keep eye contact. “Why don't you try it, see what happens?”

You pull him down for a kiss.

***

London is a web.

Threads intersecting and weaving together and splitting in a pattern of enormous complexity that looks like nothing but chaos to an outsider. But after weeks and weeks of studying you’re starting to see the logic of it. And it’s necessary, you understand that now, because the thing about a web is that it’s all  _connected_. Pull the wrong thread and the whole thing collapses.

You trace your finger over the map, following the weapon supply line. It runs through three different territories, who are all at each other’s throats, but somehow there are never problems with the transport. You’ll have to ask Jim about that, what he has on them that they cooperate.

The door slams open and Jim storms in, face like thunder.

Not in the mood to patiently answer questions, then. “What - “

“ _Nothing_ ,” he bellows, kicking the door closed. “ _Months_ of laughing in his face and he still does  _nothing_.” He takes a delicate silver box from the mantelpiece and throws it with all his might against the wall, shattering it.

You carefully put down your papers. Destroying his own property is never a good sign.

“I could kill every single last one of his people and pile their bodies in front of Thames House and still all he would do is  _wait_. “

Months of accumulated tension are finally taking their toll, it seems. He never takes it well when he misjudges something.

“He's playing a long game,” you say. “You just have to wait it out as well, Jim, there's - ”

He stalks over to you and drags you from the sofa by your shirt. You almost lose your balance and he swings you around, slamming you up against the wall. Christ, it’s a bad one this time.

“This isn't helping,” you say steadily, holding on to his arms.

“No, but it's doing wonders for my mood.” He's sneering, eyes alight, nowhere  _near_ calming down.

“For fuck's sa- look.” You break his hold and spin around so he ends up against the wall instead. “Look at me. You'll get him. You'll get the fucking bastard. Both of 'em.”

He breathes out heavily through his nose.

“Yeah? You just have to wait.” You let go of his shoulders, and he looks down and nods.

“I am getting thoroughly fed up with waiting,” he says through his teeth.

“Yeah, I've noticed.”

You go the balcony for a smoke and he trails after you, still frowning. The sun is setting, casting London in a strange purple and orange light. You lean against the railing and light up. Jim stands next to you, eyes on the view.

“This is getting boring, you know,” he says. “It almost takes the fun out of the entire plan.”

“Almost.” You blow out a stream of smoke. “What if you threaten him? Directly, I mean.”

“ _Come catch me or I blow up the Houses of Parliament?_ I think even they will see through that. No, I need something... something bigger...”

He trails off and stares into the distance. You keep a careful eye on his shoulders, his hands, any sign that he's going to explode again, but he stays relaxed.

“A skeleton key,” Jim says slowly.

“Sorry?”

“A digital skeleton key. A program, a code, something you can use to break in in any system, anywhere.”

“That isn't possible,” you say. “Is it?” Because on the other hand it's Jim, whose definition of possible is very different from most people's.

He snorts. “Of course it isn't. But they'll believe it. Because...”

“Because they can't take the risk of not believing it." You whistle through your teeth, impressed. "You really think it'll work?”

“It's worth a try. I'll find somewhere where they have a bug and I'll start talking  _very loudly_ about my new computer code.” He grins. “That'll give them a fright.”

He steals your cigarette and turns his back to the view. You fold your hands and lean on the banister.

“Jim?” you ask after a while.

“Hm?” He tilts his head back and blows out a perfect little circle of smoke.

“How long are they going to keep you there?”

“Ah, back to the worry, are we?” He smiles and pats your shoulder. “It’s  _touching_ , dear, it really is.”

“That wasn’t an answer.”

“Well spotted.”

“ _Jim_ \- ”

“A month? At most a month.”

He puts the cigarette back between your lips and you take an obedient drag. “I’m not fucking looking forward to it, is all,” you say, fingers on his.

“I know, darling. You’ve made your feelings on the matter  _abundantly_ clear.”

“Pity you don’t listen, then.”

He strokes your neck. “Oh, I listen. I just don’t obey.”

You try to catch his hand but he pulls away before you can, turns and goes back inside, humming softly.

You take a last drag and drop the cigarette over the banister, watching it fall four stories down.

***   

“ _A computer code, sir.”_

_”A what?”_

“ _An entrance code, universal. He can break in anywhere he wants, just like - ”_

“ _Don't be ridiculous. Don't you think we would have noticed if he really -_ _?”_

“ _Said he’s still planning. Sir, this isn't - He's done things we thought to be impossible before. What if - ”_

“ _He - Fuck. Fuck, fuck, I'll - I'll need to see my superiors about this._ _Can you -”_

The speakers switch off. You give Jim a reproachful look. “I was listening to that.”

“They panic so prettily, don’t they?” he says, smiling.

“They’re not used to it. Terrorist organisations, other countries, yeah, but one madman with his finger on the button?”

He cocks his head. “I’m not sure I like what you’re implying there, Sebastian.”

“Piss off.” You stand up and start fiddling with a pair of headphones. “So, this is it? They’re going to come for you now?”

“Oh, yes. You heard them, they just can’t take the risk.” His eyes are bright, smile wide, buzzing with energy. “Exciting, isn’t it?”

You don’t want him to go. You really really don’t. Maybe you could just knock him out, lock him in the bedroom, and go yourself, pretend to be Moriarty, maybe -

“Sebastian.” He raises an eyebrow. “Stop it. We’ve talked about this, it will be fine. Now, I’ll be off. Skulking in abandoned alleyways – or would that be too obvious? Maybe I could walk around with a target on the back of my coat.” He turns to leave, just like that.

“Shouldn't you – ”

He turns around again, lips thin with impatience. You struggle for words.

“Don't lose yourself,” you say at last.

He frowns at you, then crosses the distance and pulls you down to kiss you on the forehead.

“Dear boy,” he says, with a pat on your shoulder. “Be good while daddy's away, won't you?”

And then he’s gone.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Burke's Peerage:** The Who's Who of the British gentry. Basically a list of all aristocratic families and their genealogies.
> 
> **NHS:** Just in case any non-British people didn't know this, NHS stands for National Health Service, which is the publicly funded free healthcare system in the UK.


	11. Villain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which Seb Scares The Shit Out Of Everyone And Things Start Going To Hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: This chapter deals heavily with the psychological aftermath of torture and trauma. Apart from that, the usual warnings for graphic violence and violent imagery, racism, mental health issues, explicit sex, and a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it reference to noncon

**11\. Villain**

_I'm hanging on your words_  
 _Living on your breath_  
 _Feeling with your skin_  
 _Will I always be here  
_ _(Depeche Mode – In Your Room)_

 

“I want to speak to Moriarty.”

You close your eyes. The second you hear Milverton’s bleating voice you want nothing more than to crawl through the line and punch him in his fucking horse-face.

It's been three weeks since you last saw Jim.

And anyway, Charles Milverton is a cockroach of the worst kind, earning his money blackmailing people far more powerful and interesting than he. Unlike Irene Adler, who made a sport of it, he just sits on his well-padded backside trying to get his grimy little fingers into other people's lives. And to make it worse, he pretends to be this old-money aristocratic _gentleman_ , while you know for a fact he's about as middle class as they come, daddy a civil servant, mummy a teacher. It's disgusting.

“I’m sorry?” you say disdainfully.

“Moriarty. Your _boss_. I don’t converse with the secretary.”

You look at the ceiling and try to stay calm. Not that it’s easy: the bastard has been badgering you all week, and in increasingly supercilious tones as well.

“Moriarty’s fucking busy,” you say between gritted teeth. “He'll get back to you when he's got time.”

“And pray tell, when will that be? Because I remember you saying those exact same words last week.”

Fucking hell, it’s difficult not to start shouting at the entitled smug bastard. But Jim wouldn’t get angry over something like this. “Fine. I'll go now and interrupt Moriarty's _extremely important_ business, and tell him he has to drop it immediately because Milord Milverton wants a word. ‘Cause that is what you want, isn't it?”

The phone stays silent.

“Or maybe you can fucking wait until he gets back to you. Now fuck off.” You end the call with an angry stab at the button and cover your eyes with your hand.

The last two weeks have been exhausting, fuck knows how Jim does it. It’s one thing to plan out pretty crimes, but it’s a whole other thing to keep track of London’s ever-evolving underground. Who’s playing dirty, who’s getting ambitious, turf wars and sabotage and newcomers and power vacuums... Not even all your studying was enough to prepare you for this, it’s still one incomprehensible tangle.

And the bits you do manage to untangle are worrying. It’s absurd, there’s maybe a handful of people who ever meet Jim in person, but even though you’ve done everything you could to keep the illusion people are somehow noticing his absence. Like sheep sensing the herding dog’s away.

The laptop bleeps.  You quickly unmute the sound.

 _“_ _\- still refuses to talk, sir.”_

 _“_ _It's only been two weeks, we have time,_ _”_ Holmes' cool cultured voice says over the speakers.

 _“_ _Yes, sir.”_ Even through the wiretap you can hear the doubt in that.

 _“_ _You're dubious?”_

 _“_ _It's just that... Honestly, sir? He scares us.”_

 _“_ _James Moriarty is just a man. Remember that.”_

 _“_ _He's been asking for you again, sir. It might be a good idea to - ”_

 _“_ _Not yet. I want to explore all other possibilities before we go down that route. Keep up the sleep deprivation for another few days, I'm sure that will dull his edge. As for the rest, I rely on your creativity. Good luck.”_

The call disconnects. You close your eyes.

Sleep deprivation.

Dull his edge.

_I rely on your creativity._

And you’re _here_ in your stupidly comfortable fucking flat dealing with whining streaks of _shit_ while Jim is out there getting -

You look down at your hand. It's curled into a fist without you even realising, knuckles white, veins standing out. When you force your fingers to relax there are four red crescents in the palm of your hand.

This isn’t the way to do it.

You pull up the data from the prison. There isn't much, you haven't cracked the code on the video feed yet, but a mole in MI-5 has passed on a still from the security footage. It's Jim alright, staring at the wall, hands on the table. There are bruises on his face.

You keep looking at that picture for a long time.

***

The vultures are circling.

Everyone, even the bottomfeeders, the very lowest of the low, has a theory about Moriarty, and they all agree that he’s out of the picture. They’re like worms after a storm, sticking their blind little heads out of the mud, testing the air; let this go on long enough and someone will decide to make a bid for it. It would be funny if it wasn’t so pathetic. No one seems to realise just how absurd their scheming and planning is, none of them knows just how fucking _tiny_ they are compared to Jim. 

Still, you can’t exactly ignore it, bad for publicity and all that. Time to set an example, and as always, you prefer to start at the top.

John Clay. Christ, it must be more than six years since you last worked for him. You remember him well, his smug grin, his fucking _strut_. Not that he will have remembered you, you were just one of a crew back then, no clue what was really going on. Just the muscle.

How you have risen among the ranks.

You pull up the car in front of a building project. It’s abandoned at this time of the night, and supposedly neutral ground. You could have met in a pub, in a restaurant, but Clay insisted. Not hard to guess why: you can’t pull a gun in a bar.

Clay is already there when you come in, the standard two bodyguards with him. He still looks every inch as fat and ugly as the last time you saw him. Compared to Jim and his sleek suits, his subtle menace… Well, the man is a joke. It’s hard to take him seriously, really.

“So it's true? He's gone?” Clay asks immediately when he sees you.

You clench your teeth at the tone of his voice, superior in a way he has no fucking right to be. “He isn't fucking _gone,_ ”you growl. “He's indisposed right now, but he'll be coming back soon enough.”

“When?”

 _At most a month,_ Jim said, but four weeks have come and passed and still no word. “Soon,” you say after a second of hesitation.

He gives you a mocking look. “Don't try to fool me, lad. Moriarty was captured by the government, everyone fucking knows it. And you’re running things now.” He grins, showing off nicotine-stained teeth. “You think you can take his place without anyone protesting? Think you're tough enough?”

Slitting his throat would be counterproductive. Jim would be miffed. You can solve this another way.

“Consider the possibility,” you say softly, “that you're wrong. That in a few weeks’ time, Moriarty comes back. Do you want to be the man who stole his place? Do you really want to take that risk?”

His grin slips a little and he squints at you, trying to tell if you're bluffing. _When the cat’s away the mice will play_ , but the memory of the _mice_ being crucified to their bedposts when they step out of line should be enough to give them pause.

" _Goodbye_ , Mr Clay." You turn around and head back for the car, leave him to steep in his suspicions. Sometimes less is more, and you’ve made your message clear, you’re not going to gain anything by -

“It's sweet, really,” he calls after you.

You stop.

Don’t kill him. Don’t kill him don’t kill -

“How loyal you are to him,” he continues. “I mean, everyone knows you're Moriarty's _bum boy_ , but I don't think anyone suspected that you're actually in love with him.”

And just like that everything becomes clear and sharp. Beyond anger, just the same focus you used to have during a battle, a cool knowledge of what has to be done and how to do it.

You pull your gun and spin around. The first bodyguard is dead before he can even reach for his own gun, the second manages to graze your side you before you get him, not that you feel it, not that you even fucking _care_.

Clay is staring at you, too stunned to be afraid. This isn't how things work around here. Well, he can take his fucking _rules_ and _conventions_ and shove 'em up his arse.

You put your gun back in your holster and bare your teeth at him. He snaps out of it and starts running – as if the fat old bastard's actually got a chance to escape you. You catch up with him before he's outside and slam him into the wall, clasp one hand around his throat and pull your knife from your sleeve with the other.

You slowly raise it and hold it a fraction of an inch from his eyeball. If he blinks, he'll nick his eyelid.

Don’t kill.

“I'm going to say this exactly once,” you say, perfectly deadpan. “Moriarty is coming back. I don't know exactly when, but he will, and when he does he will wipe the floor with over-ambitious moronic fucking _cunts_ like you.” He takes a shaking breath and you tighten your hold. “But until he does, until he comes back, I want you to spread the word: anyone who even _breathes_ about Moriarty being dead, or captured, or in any way being not _exactly where he wants to be,_ no matter how far that person runs, how deep he hides, I will find him. And he will die screaming, praying for his life to end _months_ before I actually finish him. Got that?”

You slide the knifepoint to his cheekbone, giving room for his terrified little nod.

“Good.”

And you stab the knife in the wooden beam next to his head, point made. You step back and he slides to the floor in a shaking heap. The hot stink of urine fills the air.

“You fucking psycho,” Clay chokes, massaging his throat.

“You fucking well remember that.”

And maybe it's not quite how Jim would've solved this, but you can't shake the feeling that if he knew, he would be proud.

***

The phone line goes conspicuously silent after that.

***

“Got lucky again.”

You look down at your doctor. She’s bent over you, grey hairs showing through the dark brown. Once again she didn’t comment when you turned up at her door, blood seeping through your bandage, just ushered you in without any sign of surprise.

“But you’ll have another scar,” she adds. She’s avoiding your eyes, which is new. Her hands shake a bit when she reaches for a bottle, and her smile is forced. It’s all very unusual.

“Are you being threatened or something?” you ask.

“What?” She looks up, a hunted look in her eyes. “No.”

“What's got you so silent, then?”

She turns her back to you, rifling through the bandages, hiding her face. “You're not the only person with suspicious injuries I patch up. I, er.” Her hands still. “I hear things.”

Ah. Well, that explains it.

“Yeah? And what do they say?”

“That you don’t give a shit about anything. That you're invulnerable,” she says, carefully not looking at you. “That they can spray you with bullets and you'll just keep going.”

“Do they?” You snort. “Well, you know better, don't you?”

She turns back to you, gauze in her hand, and gives you a significant look.

You scoff in reply. “Oh, come on. How many times have I shown up here bleeding again?”

“Yeah, _exactly_.”

“What?”

She tapes down the gauze and looks up. “Do you – do you know how many times I’ve patched you up in the last four years?”

You frown. “I didn’t keep count, no. A lot. Why – ”

“I’ve seen you come in here bleeding, with broken bones, hanging together with nothing but willpower and adrenaline, and each time you pick yourself up and _carry on_.”

“And?” you ask.

She turns away and messes about with a metal bowl. “It isn’t just about bullets. You – you’re _never_ affected. Ever. You shrug off everything.”

“Look, you must have heard the gossip before, right?” you ask, irritated. “You couldn’t care less before and now suddenly you can’t look at me without flinching, like I fucking scare you. So what the hell changed?”

“Moriarty.” She gives a shaking laugh and turns around, meets your eye. “Stepped out of his shadow, now, haven’t you? I thought you were just...” She waves a hand. “That you just did what he told you to. But you’re as bad as him. Worse, ‘cause he is - ” She swallows and looks away. “Damn right you scare me.”

 _“_ _Why_?” you snap, exasperated.

But she refuses to answer.

***

It’s good, of course. They should be afraid of you, it keeps them in line. And you’ve given them more than enough reasons over the years.

Still, it’s new, ‘cause it isn’t Jim they’re afraid of, it’s _you_ , specifically. You seriously doubt anyone ever thought about you as anything but Jim’s gun before, but now he’s out of the picture and they’re still terrified. Maybe they’re smart enough to realise that anyone who’s close to a man like Jim isn’t entirely normal. Or maybe Clay exaggerated, embellished the story to make him sound less of a coward. Maybe, maybe - you’ve got no idea how that lot thinks.

It’s the sort of question Jim would have an answer to.

You miss him. More than you expected to. It’s a constant thing, waking up in an empty bed, coming back to an empty flat, thinking of things to tell him and then remembering he isn’t here, anymore. Almost physical, like losing a limb - you keep relying on it, expecting it to be there, and it isn’t.

It’s been five weeks. He should have been back by now.

***

It becomes a sort of treat, after a while, checking the security feed of the prison. Yep, he’s still there. Yes, he’s still alive. And then you can move on and get back to work. Like it’s a reminder of why you’re doing this.

Not that you need any kind of fucking reminder. Jim is carved into your skin, in more ways than one; you can’t forget him in the same way you can’t forget your heartbeat.

You switch the computer on, glass of whisky in your hand. Two days ago he found something sharp and started etching into the walls. Dozens of _Sherlocks_ now litter the walls and the one-way screen. God, that must have given them a _fright_.

And Mycroft Holmes will still let him go, the stupid fuck. Although... Not for the first time the thought crosses your mind, _what if he doesn’t?_ Because Jim said four weeks, tops, but it’s been six weeks already and still nothing. How long before you need to start planning a prison break? Or what if they decide to kill him after all?

You can’t dwell on that. It comes down to trust, again, and you’ve got that in spades.

The first screen shows the prison cell, empty. You switch to one of the other rooms, the interrogation one, with a wince - you’ve seen them in action a couple of times before and you feel a stab of phantom pain every time he's hit. But that one’s empty as well.

Your breathing speeds up, your clicking becomes frantic. Every room is empty, no one around but a few guards. You call up the file with its neat list, every action recorded with date and time, and the last line –

 _August 25, 11:19 am: Prisoner released_.

You stare, words not sinking in. _Prisoner released._

He’s out.

You drop the glass and sprint for the car.

_***_

What if it’s a trap?

You try to concentrate on the driving. It’s a country road, bumpy as hell, you need your concentration.

What if you arrive only to find his corpse? What if they’re waiting for you with an armed squadron? What if -

You thump the steering wheel. Trust. He told you to do this and so you will. There were coordinates attached, like he said there would be, and they will be lying in wait, but not overtly. They’ll want to keep watching him. That’s what Jim said would happen so that _is_ what will fucking happen.

 _“_ _You have reached your destination_ ,” the GPS announces. It’s the middle of nowhere, no other cars in sight, just fields. You pull up and get out, hand on your gun. There’s nothing around, and for a second you feel like there’s a vice closing around your heart. He _has_ to be here, has to, but -

A small noise. There’s a ditch, half-hidden from sight. You step closer, slowly, look down, and there he is, left behind like a fucking dog. He's wearing the sort of clothes he wouldn't be seen dead in, a faded t-shirt and track bottoms, old worn shoes. He's unshaven, unwashed, stinking of old sweat and blood and vomit. He doesn't look up at you, doesn't react.

You need to be clearheaded. You're no use to him if you start panicking. You _cannot_ panic.

You pull him gently upright and he follows you, docile as a sheep. He's got a limp, and when you throw your arm around his ribcage to support him his next few breaths come faster. Hurt, obviously, bruised-possibly-broken, they might have kicked him about for -

No. This doesn’t help. One step at the time, and right now you just need to get him home.

You pick up a tail as soon as you leave the country road, as expected. They’re good though, thorough, and it takes a lot of sudden U-turns and breaking the speeding limits before you lose them. 

Jim stays quiet throughout the ride, sitting in the back seat, staring outside without actually seeing anything. He doesn’t react, not even when your reckless driving throws him hard against the door. The only sound you hear from him is the occasional rasp of his breath.

Get him home. Get him home and then you can deal with whatever it is he’s suffering from.

It takes about four hours before you’re absolutely certain you’ve lost anyone tailing you and you feel safe enough to drive to Knightsbridge. It’s a relief of immense proportions when you finally pull up in front of the flat and you can focus on Jim again. He leans against you when you get him out of the car, shaking noticeably. You try to avoid his ribs as much as possible but still he winces and trembles when you shift your arm, or when you move a little too quickly. And he’s still silent.

Torture affects everyone differently. And Jim had to keep his wits about him, to play out the game he planned, it’s only natural that he’s exhausted. He always goes quiet and withdrawn when he’s tired, it isn’t that unusual.

You get into the lift. The mirror shows the both of you, you tall and straight in your suit, and Jim in a miserable heap against you.

Who are you trying to fool, it _is_ unusual. You’ve seen him exhausted before, and panicked and furious, in every possible mood, but not this one. It’s like he’s empty, nothing but a shell.

You open the door and lead him inside by the shoulder. Your glass is still lying on the floor where you dropped it, whisky soaked into the carpet. Normally he would have bitched about it, eternal neat-freak he is, but now… He doesn’t even notice.

“Jim?”

Nothing. He doesn’t even look up. Fucking _blank_.  Panic crawls back up your throat and you have to fight to stay calm, because your overriding instinct right now is to grab him and shake him and shout until he –

No. First things first. You take his shoulder again and steer him to the bathroom. Still no reaction, he just stares down, following your lead like he’s got no will of his own.

“Shower,” you say softly. “Take your clothes off. Come on, Jim, _please_.”

Nothing. Which means it’s up to you. You put your hands on his waist – he winces again – and carefully slide the shirt up. The muscles in his shoulders and throat tense up as you raise his arms, pull the t-shirt over his head.

Someone kicked him alright, there’s a bootprint-shaped bruise on his side. You try your best to ignore it and go down on one knee. You untie his shoes, pull the track bottoms down, lift his feet up. He sways when his foot leaves the floor and you catch him only just in time. He didn’t even have the reflex to throw out an arm or grab your shoulder, to keep from falling.

You stand up again and give him a once-over. His whole body is covered in bruises in all colours, from old and yellow to the harsh dark blue of fresh ones. Especially around the wrists - restrained - and the shoulders - held down. Scratches as well, although most traces of blood or other fluids have been cleaned off. At least the so-called _good guys_ had the decency to –

No point in getting angry.

You strip off your own clothes, get into the shower and pull him carefully in as well. He closes his eyes when the water hits his face, but again, it seems to be nothing more than very basic instinct, no conscious thought.

You clean him up, as gently as you can. Nothing seems to be broken, luckily, but his breathing is still off. Could be more than just physical harm that’s causing that, though. 

You tilt his head back, run the flannel over his neck, replacing the sick disgusting smell with that poncy sandalwood thing he likes. He keeps his eyes closed, flinches every time you touch him. Almost goes down again when you turn away, his legs too weak to support him.

Once cleaned up, you get him to the bed and bandage the worst of the wounds, like he’s done uncountable times for you. There’s no reaction, no word spoken, nothing except the occasional hitched breath or quiet cough. He still doesn’t look at you, like nothing registers.

Your own fingers are shaking as well. You try to disconnect, to see this objectively and focus on the bandaging instead of thinking about what they did, how he must feel, how they –

You put your hands down on the sheets and breathe out. _Don’t lose yourself_ , you said, and that’s _exactly_ what fucking happened and it’s getting harder and harder to stay calm. But nothing is going to change what happened and he _needs_ you right now, so you can fucking well pull yourself together and concentrate on what actually _helps_.

You put the first aid kit back in the bedside table and pull the sheets back. Jim lies down of his own volition, the first sign that there's still something going on inside his head, but that's all he does. You even have to pull the blanket up for him, like he’s a fucking child.

You get under the covers as well. He doesn’t move when you touch his arm, but on the other hand he doesn’t pull away, so that’s something. He does make a little sound when you put your arm around his waist, but that’s probably just the pain rather than recognition.

After weeks of nothing the closeness is almost too much, and it’s made even worse by him still being - being what, broken? Locked inside his own head?

You lean your forehead against his shoulder. Breathe in, breathe out. Can’t panic now. He’s had absences before, he always came back. This isn’t that different.

Except it is.

His stomach rises and falls against your palm with each breath he takes. Slow and deep. The shaking has stopped as well. If he were himself he’d have kicked you off by now, far too close, too much body contact, but you can’t bring yourself to let go of him.

Suddenly he grabs your forearm, fingers digging in hard. Your breath hitches in surprise, but he doesn’t do anything else, just holds your arm in a painful deathgrip.

“You’re alright,” you whisper, but he doesn’t give any sign that he’s heard you. “You’re home, you’re alright, you’re safe. You’re _home_.”

He doesn't move for the rest of the night.

***

You wake up to a slight sound – there’s someone in the bedroom. You reach beneath your pillow for your knife, ready to pounce, but who the fuck could –

And then the memories return.

Jim. _Back._

Your eyes snap open. He’s sitting on the side of the bed, head bowed. He shifts a little as you sit up.

“Jim?” you ask carefully.

“What date is it?”

 _God_ , you’ve missed his voice, didn’t even realise how much until now. Even though he sounds off, too quiet and rough.

“Twenty-fifth of August.” You glance outside, at the dawning light. “Twenty-sixth by now.”

He runs his hands over his face. “Six weeks.”

“Yeah.”

He rubs at his eyes, yawns, prods carefully at his ribs.

“I don't think they're broken,” you say. He doesn't reply. “Are you hungry?”

He nods absently.

He hasn't looked at you once.

***

It’s like walking on eggshells. You hover around Jim like a worried hen, feeding him, changing the dressings on his wounds, trying to draw him out. The blank-slate state has disappeared, but he continues to be silent and oddly muted, like a ghost of his former self. Drifting around the flat and randomly touching things, staring at the screens in the study, or listlessly pressing buttons on his laptop.

Or standing in front of the mirror and looking at his reflection like he's being threatened by it. You lean in the doorway, once more unsure what to do.

He looks up and gives you a wan smile. “I urgently need a shave,” he says. His voice is still _wrong_ , too soft, too hesitant.

But he's got a point. It's the one thing you couldn't bring yourself to do, holding something sharp to his face. “What's stopping you?” you ask.

His mouth twists and he raises his hand, holding it out. Showing off his tremor. “I don't think it's a very good idea for me to hold a blade right now,” he says.

“You want me to...”

He looks at the ceiling, at the floor, back at the mirror. Finally he nods, but it's tight, frustrated.

“Right. Lather up.”

He brushes shaving foam over his face and you test the edge of the straight razor. It's still as sharp as ever, and your hands are steady enough, but you’ve never done this to someone else. You haven’t got another option though – you never did get round to buying a new electric razor after you came back from Australia.

You take his shoulder and guide him to stand before the mirror, throw a towel over his chest. “I should have done this earlier, sorry.”

He shakes his head, lips going thin. It's like the real Jim Moriarty is slowly rising again, only the awkward bits are resurfacing first.

You step behind him and lean close, put the blade underneath his ear and draw it down slowly. He's still as a statue. You try to catch his eye in the mirror but he’s staring fixedly in the distance.

Jim has always been strange when it comes to eye contact, either staring too long and too intense, or avoiding the other person's eyes altogether. But this? This looks like something you would do, trying to ignore the other person and hiding inside your head. Going stoic.

“Jim.”

He blinks and looks at you, blinks again. You wipe the blade and tilt his head to the side.

“You can talk to me about it, you know,” you say carefully. You scrape the blade over his cheek. “If you want to. I know about this stuff, I’ve been through it myself. And I know _you_ , even if you want to deny it – ” dangerous waters there, careful, “and you need to - to reconnect, right? Realise you're back again. Step outside of your head.”

“You're the expert, then?” he says dully, as soon as you've lifted the razor off.

“Close as you're ever going to get.” You raise his chin and shave his throat, as careful as you can. He swallows immediately when the razor reaches his chin. “Look, what I'm saying is...” You put the razor down, carefully out of reach, and try to think of the right thing to say. It feels like one wrong word could shatter him now.

“I don't understand what's going on. ‘Cause you're _you_." You turn his head gently to you, hand on his cheek. "But there's no fucking need to lock me out, alright?”

He meets your eyes again. For a second something seems to wake up inside of him, but then it’s gone again. His eyes fall closed and he leans into your hand.

“It isn’t that simple,” he mumbles.

“I know.” You run your thumb carefully over his cheekbone. It’s still swollen from where he was hit. “Go on, go to bed.”

He opens his eyes again and gives you another of those flat, dull looks.

“I’ll be there in a moment,” you add.

He turns away again. You watch his back until he’s out of sight.

Christ.

You put your hands on the sink and bow your head. You’re running blind here – sure, Jim has gone strange before and you always sort of knew what to do, but now? And the – the _absurd, idiotic_ fucking thing is that your first instinct still is to ask Jim for advice on how to handle this.

Maybe you never fully realised just how much you _need_ him.

You push off and get back to the bedroom. Jim is standing at the corner of the bed, staring down at it with something that looks a bit like wariness, or fear.

“Nightmares are pretty much a given,” you say, watching him closely.

He doesn’t look up. “Are they?”

“Yeah. But…” You step closer, making sure he can keep you in view. Earlier today you accidentally sneaked up on him and he almost had a panic attack. “But you can’t deny yourself sleep. It only makes things worse, you start seeing things, drifting off where you stand.”

He turns his head, slowly. “Then what do I do?”

Jesus, he sounds so… _helpless_. You’ve never known him to show his vulnerability like that. “Go to sleep anyway. I’ll be here, wake you up when it gets bad.”

He nods and turns back to the bed. “Stay – stay close.”

“I will.” You lie down on the bed, propped up against the pillows, and pull him along. He leans back against you. You throw an arm around his shoulders, your hand on his arm. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He takes your other hand, traces the lines of your palm. “Talk,” he blurts.

“About?”

“Anything. I need to to - to shut up. Quiet.”

“I – alright.” You cast your mind around, try to think of something harmless, unconnected to violence or torture. It’s harder than you’d think, you haven’t exactly lived a peaceful life.

“Erm… I was born in Madras. It… Well, there were still plenty of other British people around, and I didn’t really leave the house that much, but… It was still India. And I had an lndian nanny as well, because obviously my parents had better things to do than raise their child. I don’t remember much of her, just fragments of the stories she used to tell me. And a couple of words of Tamil.”

You glance down at him. He’s looking in the distance, but when you stop he squeezes your hand. “Keep going,” he says softly.

“Right. Er. When I was – I don’t know, four years old? – my father got promoted and we moved to Pakistan. They sacked the nanny, of course. I was devastated, the way only a four-year old can be. And they hired a new one there. Interesting woman, very literate. She taught me Urdu. She wasn’t supposed to, my parents wanted me to grow up like a proper English lordling, and proper English lordlings don't have uses for Urdu.”

He makes a noise and shifts position a little. You move your arm, stroke his shoulder. Already he feels less tense, less on edge. 

“But she did anyway. And I liked it better than English, it sounded – I don’t know. Warmer? More like home, something like that. And I loved the secrecy of it. She used to sneak me out to go and watch Bollywood movies, or she'd read me Ghazals when I was supposed to be asleep…”

“Ghazals?”

“Poetry.”

Jim snorts.

“Yeah, I know. I didn’t understand much of it, but I loved it because it was, you know, a kind of rebellion, and because I liked learning language stuff. So I basically grew up bilingual. But by the time I was eight my father got promoted again, and we had to move to Europe, leaving the nanny behind again. I was _furious_ at my parents.”

“What did you do?” Jim asks.

“Hm? Oh, nothing much, just seethed quietly. Mooned over the book she had given me before we left. And there was plenty to distract me, we travelled around a lot. Six months in Brussels, six months in Switzerland, Italy, France… I collected languages the way other kids would collect marbles.”

He tangles his fingers with yours, squeezes again, his palm warm and soft against yours. _God_ , you're glad he's back again.

You clear your throat. “And I kept reading the Ghazals, because they… I don’t know. Felt like something from home, to me. Or maybe it was rebellion again, because my parents didn’t really like me muttering in Urdu when I was supposed to talk perfect RP. But it was too late by then, I spoke English with the messiest, most international accent you can imagine. And then I got sent to Eton.”

He huffs. You’re not telling him anything new, you know that, what he didn’t research he has deduced on his own. But it seems to work, help him calm down. No wonder, really: what better way to get away from yourself than step inside another person’s head for a while?

“I _hated_ it there. I was a year younger than everyone else, a short insufferable know-it-all who didn't know squat about British culture and TV and music - I didn’t have a chance in hell.”

“Hence the scar,” he mutters.

“Yeah. That was the turning point, actually. I was lying there on the kitchen floor, bawling my eyes out, and this – this tiny ice-cold part of me thought _well, sod this, I’ve had enough_.”

“And you made them stop.”

“I did.” You brush the hair from his forehead. “Couple of years later I was Eton’s golden boy. It’s all just a matter of – of knowing the right buttons to push, I suppose. And not hesitating to do what’s necessary.”

“Buttons,” he murmurs, eyes closed again. He’s gone heavy-limbed, tension gone. With a bit of luck he’s starting to fall asleep.

“So you know Urdu?” he asks suddenly.

“Er, yes, I’m still fluent. You don’t?”

“No. Never needed to.” He squeezes your hand, hard enough to grind the bones together. “Say something. I want to hear it.”

You open your mouth to make some dirty joke, or stealth-insult him, but what comes out instead is – well, practically the opposite. “ _Ishq par zor naheen, hae ye vho aatish Ghalib. Jo lagaayne lagee aur bujhaayne banee_.”

“What’s it mean?” he asks, words slurring.

_your nanny’s dark eyes, her sad smile with all those layers of meaning behind it you were too young to understand_

You shake your head. "Sentimental rubbish. It doesn’t matter.”

He mumbles something and settles down in the crook of your arm. His eyes fall closed, and he sighs, deeply.

You pull him a little closer and listen to the sound of his breathing slowing down.

***

You’ve got to wake him up roughly every thirty minutes that night. Each time he starts whimpering, hands twitching, and once he’s awake again he just lies frozen, staring at the ceiling for several minutes before he even starts to relax.

You keep your promise and stay close, constantly alert for any sign of distress. But, well, some needs can’t be ignored, so somewhere around five AM you slide carefully out of bed to go and take a piss.

When you get back Jim is sitting up, head buried in his hands, rocking silently.

“Jim?” You kneel down on the bed, in front of him. He throws out his hand and takes your nape, pulls you close. You catch a glimpse of his face, twisted up like he’s in pain, and then he presses his face into your shoulder. His breathing is laboured, coming in short uneven bursts.

You put your hand on his neck and pull him in, press your cheek against his hair. He stinks of fear, that sour-sweat smell that always hangs around prisoners and victims.

“Stop it,” you ask, plead. “You're - you're  _fine_ , you're safe,  _stop it_.”

“Stay close,” he grinds out.

“You’ve got me.” You run your hand over his back, slick with sweat. “You’ve _got_ me, alright? I’m here.”

He convulses, like he’s about to throw up. You dig your nails into his shoulder, squeeze your eyes shut.

There is nothing, _nothing_ you want to do more right now than track down Mycroft Holmes and tear out his fucking _throat_.

***

The second and the third night are pretty much as hellish as the first, but by the fourth he manages to get a few solid hours of sleep, only waking up once.

The days stay the same, though. His concentration is apparently shot to pieces, because he doesn’t do anything for longer than maybe thirty minutes. Unless it’s staring ahead, he can do that for _hours_ on end. And everything he does has a kind of slowness to it, as if he has to consciously think about anything he wants to do. It's worrying, to say the least.

A loud bang makes you look up. You go back to the living room. Jim is standing next to the window, holding his hand, his face twisted.

“What the fuck did you do?” you ask. You take his hand and turn it around – angry red, fuck knows what he hit. At least nothing broke.

He pulls his hand abruptly from you grasp and turns away, puts distance between you and him. "Stop it," he says, rubbing his forehead.

"Stop what?"

"Stop - stop doing - jus- just stop - " He clamps his mouth shut and his hands twist. His eyes go to the ceiling, expression deeply frustrated.

"Jim - "

He walks to the window and leans his hand on the glass. "Stop," he whispers, just loud enough for you to hear.

"Do I- Do I need to leave? Stay?" you ask, uncertain. "Jim, what do you want?"

"Don't know." He turns around, leans his back against the window. He briefly closes his eyes and when he opens them again he looks - sharper, somehow. As if he's woken up.

"Jim?"

He pushes off and stalks off to the bedroom. You follow him warily.

Once there he starts pacing, hands behind his back. His movements have suddenly lost that underwater slowness, everything jagged and close to aggressive. You sit down in one of the chairs and watch him go, up and down.

It’s something you recognise, and maybe that should be reassuring, seeing something familiar. But it has always unnerved you a little, the way he seems to be _overflowing_ with energy, as if he’s physically incapable of staying still, bursting at the seams with it.

“It has been a long while,” he says suddenly. “Funny, I thought I remembered, but...” He trails off.

You try to think of something to say. “Memory fools us all.”

“ _Not me_ ,” he roars, and you jump a little. Fuck knows you’re used to his mood swings by now, but this is going a bit beyond that.

“Not me.” He runs a hand over his face. “I remember everything. But it's their eyes, you see. As if. As if they – as if they just want to _erase you –_ ”he scrunches up his nose, mimes an eraser, “as if they're trying to get you gone. Away. But I won't, will I?” He turns to the open window. “ _I won't disappear!_ '” he yells. Good thing the neighbours know to play deaf.

“Or maybe I will.” His voice goes flat. “I'm getting _bored_ anyway. It's all so predictable. Easy. No challenge anymore. Hm? Where's the challenge gone?”

He's still talking to empty air, forgotten you’re there. “Jim,” you say softly.

He turns and stares at you, the same unblinking stare you've seen uncountable times before. You swallow.

He crosses the room in three quick strides and straddles your lap, leaning forward so his head is in the crook of your neck. You put a hand on his waist to support him, the other on his neck. He slides his hand beneath your shirt and finds the old scar between your shoulders, traces the lines as if to remind himself they're still there.

“Would you miss me?” he whispers in your ear. You close your eyes, wind your fingers in his hair. “Will you miss me when I'm gone, Sebastian Moran?”

 _I'd die without you_ , you think, and for all that it sounds like romantic crap it's painfully true.

***

You don't want to leave the flat.

Wait, scrap that: you don't want to leave  _Jim_. And it isn't entirely self-indulgence either, he seems calmer when you're near, more at ease. He's taken to following you around even, whenever you leave his sight. Like you're some kind of beacon to him.

So yeah, you really don't want to leave. But unfortunately you still have duties, especially since Jim still isn't fit to go out in the open.

“I need to go out for a bit,” you say, leaning against the wall, arms crossed.

Jim doesn’t react. He’s sitting on the sofa, legs tucked underneath him, staring at a file. Staring, not reading, he hasn’t turned a page in half an hour.

“Jim?” you try again.

“Why?” He doesn’t look up.

“Groceries, for one thing. And there’s something happening in Brixton. I need to check it out, see if it’s serious.”

He nods, but his fingers are twitching. Hand cramping up, relaxing, curling back into a fist.

“Will you...” You trail off.

It’s a little surprising how deep it goes, this... _thing_ you feel. It’s something primal again, wanting to tear apart anyone who comes close to him when he’s vulnerable, to put him somewhere safe and prowl the borders to make sure no one can get to him again.

Which is what you’re about to do, really. There is no place safer than the flat, no one can get to him here.

No one but himself, that is.

“So what are you waiting for?” he asks. He still isn’t looking at you, still twitching.

“I could stay,” you say, rushed. “I could - I don’t know, order in, check the CCTV, make a few calls. I don’t have to leave.”

“You can’t stay holed up here indefinitely.” A quick, glancing look at you, gone before you can react. “You’re already getting cabin fever.”

“But - you’re not well,” you say weakly.

He gives a strange hiccoughing laugh. “No, I’m not, am I?” He runs a hand over his face. “Go. I’ll be fine.”

“You won’t.”

“No,” he agrees. “But I’ll survive.”

“Call me. When - _if_ you, you know.”

“If I what?” he asks, studying his knees.

 _If you need me_ , you almost say, but that has a fuckload of connotations that you don’t really want to bring up right now. “If you want to,” you say instead.

He looks at you. The corner of his mouth twitches up in a ghost of his usual smile. “Don’t kill anyone.”

You blink. “What makes you say that?”

“You’ve got that look in your eye. The scary one.” His eyes glide to the window. “Big bad wolf,” he mutters, almost quiet enough for you to miss it.

“I won’t, then,” you say carefully. He doesn’t reply. You turn, open the door, pause with your hand on the doorknob. Look over your shoulder.

He looks lost, wounded, and it goes again every instinct to leave him like this.

“Call me,” you say again, and then you leave.

***

When you get back it's long past dusk, and the flat is dark and shadowed. There's music playing, a choir singing in Latin, a requiem but you're damned if you can remember which one, and Jim is standing in front of the picture window. He's smoking, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, no jacket or tie or shoes.

The first thought that crosses your mind is _he’s back_. You’ve seen him before like this, after all – although not often, you can count the times on one hand – and this is Jim at his most honest, most real, all disguises stripped away. Most dangerous too, in a very understated way.

You hang up your coat, slip out of your jacket and walk over. He doesn't acknowledge you, so you wait.

“ _Dies Irae_ ,” he murmurs after a while, almost unintelligible. His voice has gone low and soft and a bit breathy, the one he uses when he's inside one of his ideas. He takes another drag, eyes still on London. “You know what it means?”

“Judgement day, isn't it?” you say, keeping your voice quiet. Play along. Don’t disturb.

“Hm. But the literal translation, you know that?” He leans forward, forehead touching the glass. “ _Day of wrath_.” He drags the words out slowly, and you suppress a shiver. He doesn’t look entirely human.

He very, very slowly rolls his head and focuses on you. “I'll burn them," he growls. He reaches out and puts his hand on the side of your face, thumb on your cheekbone, dragging down to rest at your mouth. “And you know what?” he adds, something dark in his eyes. He pushes off the glass and steps close to you, hand at the base of your skull, tugs you down so your ear is next to his mouth. You hold your breath.

“It won't be enough.”

***

The next morning Jim gets out of bed at the crack of dawn. You wake up instantly, like you have for the past two weeks. No pained groans or thrashing now, though. “Are you – ”

He puts a hand on your shoulder. “At ease, Captain,” he says cheerfully. Jim doesn’t have problems with early mornings, generally speaking, and he sounds very alert. Back to normal?

You settle back into a half-doze, listening to the familiar noises of the shower, the rustle of clothing, and his footsteps on the wood, and after that the clicking of a keyboard. Safe. You roll onto your side and try to get another few hours of sleep. After all, for the past two months you've had a chronic shortage.

When you get up he's still working. You can hear his voice while you're in the shower, switching between accent and tone and emotion - one time he shouts loud enough you can hear every word, and immediately after that it’s something close to a whisper. It’s comforting, though, just hearing him.

Back to normal. Christ, let’s hope it lasts.

You pull your jeans on and wander into the living room, scrubbing at your hair. Jim looks up when you walk in, a strange look on his face. Almost wary.

“Someone's made an impression,” he says, and is that _surprise_?

“Sorry?”

He goes back to his files. “Apparently you've terrorised the entire London criminal community into sitting and waiting until I got back.”

“Ah, that. I guess Clay kept his word.”

“Clay?”

“I met with him and explained what would happen if anyone got uppity.” You shrug. “He's a prick.”

“A very _scared_ prick, all of a sudden. Hardly comes out of his house anymore.” He looks at you sideways. “You've held up well.”

Did he expect you to crack? He still looks oddly off-balance. “Did I _exceed expectations_?” you ask, a little amused.

“Something like it.” He snaps his fingers. “Come.”

You cross the room and drop to your knees. He strokes your cheek with the back of his fingers and you close your eyes. Fuck, but you missed the bastard.

“You'll do whatever I want you to, won't you?” he says. His voice is calmer than usual, almost contemplative.

“You still have to ask?”

His hand finds your neck. “Even if it means stepping aside? Watching me get hurt?”

“I just _did_ , didn't I?”

“Would you do it again?”

You open your eyes. _No_. Because you might have held up well, like he said, but it was fucking horrible. You don’t want to go through that again, not if you can help it, not if -

“I need an answer, Sebastian,” he says slowly.

You wrap your hand around his wrist, fingers against his pulse point. “Don't do this.”

“Do _what_ , Sebastian?”

“This. Whatever it is you're – just don't - ” You fall silent.

“It hurt, didn't it? Being alone?” His fingernails scrape over your nape. “Poor Seb. But would you do it again? If I asked you to?”

“I - ”

“ _Would you_?”

“Yes. Always, yes. Just...” You look away and take a deep breath. “What's the _point_ of all this, Jim?”

“The point?” He laughs. “Don't you worry your pretty little head about that. Just do as I say and all will be fine.”

You breathe out heavily. You have no choice but to trust him, but, well, that's nothing new, is it? “Okay.”

“Good. Now get dressed.” He pulls his wrist from your hand.

“You sure you want me to put clothes _on_?” you say, reaching for his thigh instead.

He intercepts your hand halfway. “ _Yes_ , I'm sure. Do me a favour and change into something nice, will you? I'm tired of seeing you slouch around in jeans all the time.”

And he goes back to his computer, dismissing you completely.

***

He has barely touched you since he got back.

It isn’t the injuries, those are all pretty much healed. So either it’s you, and it's just like those early days, when you didn’t have the privilege of touch yet, or...

Or it’s something else, and that’s a possibility you really don’t want to consider.

You stop trying to initiate things yourself after a few days, if he wants to he’ll let you know. But it’s incredibly frustrating, that after all that time apart the only thing you’re allowed to do is look. And not even that, he gets twitchy when you stare at him for too long.

Funny how much you can fucking _miss_ someone even when they’re just a room away.

“Everything alright?” you ask, sticking your head around the door of the study. “Anything I can do to help?”

Jim jumps and twirls his chair around. “No, not unless you’ve managed to pick up a working knowledge of Python.”

“What, the snake?”

He rolls his eyes. “Nevermind. Ah, Sebastian,” he adds as you turn to leave.

You turn back. “Yeah?”

He gives you an odd look. His jaw is locked, fingers curled into a fist. Not angry, more like determined. Or frustrated.

“What is it?” you ask.

“Nothing.” He turns away. “You can leave.”

You grit your teeth. “Can’t you at least - ”

“Sebastian. Leave.”

You gently close the door and lean against it. Still nothing, although if that face is anything to go by, he isn’t exactly enjoying this as well. Pity he doesn’t _talk_ about it like a normal person would.

Still, there’s nothing you can do about it, trying to force this would only end in disaster. You stretch out on the sofa and go back to your book.

About two chapters later the door flies open and hits the wall with a loud bang. You don’t look up from the page, which might be a bit childish but dry spells always make you cranky.

However, you can’t ignore Jim plucking the book from your hands and throwing it across the room. “What are you-” you start, and then he throws his leg over your hips.

“ _Jesus_ ,” you gasp when he goes straight for your throat, grinds his hips against yours. “It's been _two months_ , you bastard, couldn't you give some warning?”

“Catch up,” he growls against your collarbone. His hand slides under your shirt, palm smoothing over your side, and then he pauses.

You forgot about your latest battle scar.

“This is new,” he says, tone veering madly.

“I got a bit angry.”

“You were _reckless_.”

You crane your head, try to see his expression. He moves up suddenly with that sudden snakelike speed he so rarely shows and closes his other hand around your throat.

“Listen to me,” he says, every word clearly cut. “You do _not_ get to be reckless. Not now. Not _ever._ ”

You make a choked noise and he loosens his grip. “I wasn't _,_ ” you croak. “Calculated risk, it's what I _do_. If you want me never to get hurt you're going to have to lock me up in your closet.”

“Don't tempt me,” he says darkly.

“I know what I’m doing, alright?” You pull his hand from your throat. “Stop being a prick about this.”

His thumb strokes the wound, and then he pulls your t-shirt off with a sudden vicious movement, almost dislocating your shoulder in the process. The second your arms are free you go for his shirt, tearing it off without taking any care for the fabric.

Getting him out of his trousers is more difficult, especially since Jim seems reluctant to lose skin contact for even a second. But every time you try to make it easier – pushing him off, turning over, even making this into a hurried-handjob kind of thing – he intervenes. He obviously has _plans_.

When he finally manages to wriggle out of them and your own trousers are pushed down to your ankles, he fishes one of those ever-present tubes of lube from between the cushions and leans back. He closes his eyes, arches his back and his hand disappears behind him. You're starting to see where this is going.

You clear your throat. “Do you want me to - ”

“No.”

You lay a hand on his lower back and he leans into it a bit. “This would be a lot easier if we moved to the bedroom,” you say.

He ignores you and squeezes his eyes shut, arm working and that's a pretty arousing sight, actually. Still, when he pulls his fingers back out it feels a little too soon, especially considering how fucking tense he looks.

“Already?” you ask.

“Yes,” he hisses. He wipes his fingers on the sofa, eyes still closed.

You move your free hand to his hip, guiding him. “This is going to hurt,” you say warningly.

“Don't care.” His eyes snap open, first staring over your head and then slowly focusing on you.

Like this is the first time he really recognises you again.

“Where are you, Jim?” you ask softly.

“Home,” he says, and then he pushes down and that's got to hurt. His teeth sink into his lip but he doesn't stop. You try your best to stay still, even though that’s _really fucking difficult_ , because it’s been over two months with nothing but your right hand and the bastard’s _tight_.

But you bury your fingers into the cushions and give up control completely, 'cause that, obviously, is what he needs right now.

He braces his hand against the armrest, just next to your head. You close your fingers around his wrist and slide your other hand over his thigh, to the tense muscles of his stomach and midriff, and higher, to his breastbone. His heart is racing, but he doesn't move, neither do you, and after a while his pulse slows down.

“Home,” he repeats. He looks down at you, frowning, and brushes his fingers against your mouth.

Your hand skims down over his stomach, stopping just beneath his navel in a silent question. He shakes his head so your hand goes back to his lower back. You let your fingers drift lower to where you're joined and he rocks forward. You both moan, practically in unison, and _this_ is what you've been starved for ever since he got captured.

“Jim – ”

“Shut up.”

He moves again. Your fingers around his wrist tighten reflexively and he makes a little noise - fuck, right, weeks of being in restraints, of course he wants to keep his wrists free right now. You let go as quickly as you can, but he catches your hand again and laces your fingers together, squeezing just hard enough to be painful.

“I need to stay here,” he says, voice low. You can't explain what that means exactly, but you _know_.

He shifts, bare feet trying to find purchase on the sofa, and then he leans down. You meet him halfway, letting go of his hand and pulling him in by his neck. Every tiny movement he makes sends jolts of pleasure down your spine, his lips are soft and wet against yours, and this, this is almost too much, so damn _good_ that it's nearing painful.

He breaks off and leans back again, hand on your chest, pushing you down. You take his hips. Jim has got almost full control of pace and depth but there's a trick to this. You tilt your hips slightly, pull him forward just a bit and he doesn't quite gasp, but it comes close.

He closes his eyes, reaches for your hand and pulls it to his cock – _now_ you get to touch – but he keeps hold of your fingers, directing your touch. Control, this is about control, and you don't mind in the slightest.

He starts moving faster and lean up onto your elbow, try to pull him closer. But he digs his nails into your shoulder and you go down again, flat on your back, looking up at him. He’s fucking gorgeous like this, hair messy with sweat, a concentrated frown on his face, the slow roll of his hips and the muscles of his stomach and thighs contracting and trembling. Your take hold of the back of the sofa, just to have something to hang on to, and Jim's hand comes up and covers yours, pinning you to the cushions.

"Please," you pant, not entirely sure what you're begging for. Jim just gives a breathy laugh in reply and tilts his hips, trying to find the right angle. You bend your leg and push up again. His eyes fly open again and you smirk in triumph.

Jim seems less pleased. “Don’t,” he says, pressing down on your hand on the sofa.

“You can’t honestly expect me to just lie back and - ”

“Sebastian,” he gasps. It’s the closest you’ve ever heard him come to begging. You lie back down.

It’s torment of a different kind than you’re used to. You’re practically touch-starved and yet you can’t do anything but let him use you. You almost wish he’d got out the handcuffs for this.

His hands are starting to shake, movements getting more frantic. You can’t even move the hand on his cock ‘cause he’s got hold of it, and when he finally comes it’s on his terms, out of your control. He throws his head back, a wild grin on his face, and that fucking sight alone is almost enough to make you come.

Only almost, though. You try to catch his eye, panting. It wouldn’t be the first time he just took what he wanted without a second thought for what you want, but he wouldn’t do that now, would he?

"Jim?"

He opens his eyes again and focuses on you. It's that intense, burning kind of look that can still make you feel exposed, even after all those years together. You swallow. He leans forward, both hands landing on your chest, nails digging in. You grip his forearms in wordless pleading.

His eyes skip between yours, and then he bends down and whispers in your ear, still breathless, “You can come now.”

And _God damn Jim_ and his _voice_ and his _fucking control issues_ but that’s it, that’s all it takes, and it’s pathetic but you just can’t help yourself. He presses his lips against yours as if he wants to swallow your groan as you come and it's - he's -

You collapse back onto the couch. You're vaguely aware of Jim's laughter and his weight as he falls down on top of you, but it's honestly hard to concentrate on anything but the aftershocks.  _God_ , it had been much too long. 

You lay a trembling hand between his shoulder blades and he burrows close against your neck. “Sofa's never gonna recover,” you mutter, still a little dazed.

He huffs in laughter, his breath warm and hot against your neck. “I'll buy a new one.”

“And what about all the fond memories of this one?”

He pushes off against your shoulder and sits up, face twisting when your cock slides out. He gets up and you move to follow him.

“No,” he says. “Not just now.”

You lie back and fold your hands over your stomach. It's quite a picture you're painting, trousers tangled around your ankles, scratches all around your shoulders, drying come on your chest…

You look up at Jim, wanting to make some sort of quip about it but it dies in your throat. He's looking at you, eyes slowly travelling over your body. When he finally meets your eyes you almost feel ready for another go.

“Dear boy,” he says with a smile.

He turns on his heels and disappears. You fall back onto the sofa with a groan.

Dear  _God_ how you've missed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **RP:** Not sure if I've mentioned this before, but RP stands for Received Pronunciation, i.e. Very Posh English.
> 
>  **Urdu:** national language of Pakistan (and several cities and regions in India as well). Very closely related to Hindi, they're mutually intelligible.
> 
>  **Ishq par zor naheen, hae ye vho aatish Ghalib. Jo lagaayne lagee aur bujhaayne banee:** part of a poem (a Ghazal, which is a specific kind of poem dealing with love and loss) by the 19th century poet Ghalib. Loosely translated: “You can’t control love, it’s a triumphant fire. It can’t be started on a whim and can’t be extinguished if you try.”
> 
>  **Captain:** pet peeve of mine. Moran is a Colonel in the books because he shows up near the end of the canon, when both Holmes and Watson are in their forties or fifties, and because this was the nineteenth century, when commissions could be bought. Nowadays, army ranks are based chiefly on experience and length of tenure, meaning the average age of a Colonel in the British Army is late forties to fifties. If you want a contemporary Moran who’s roughly the same age as Moriarty, Sherlock and John, he’s going to be a Major at most. /pedant


	12. The Accused

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which Jim Moriarty Seeks Attention

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for explicit sex, reference to terrorism, reference to self-harm and bullying, codependent relationships, emotional abuse, mental health issues, implied suicidal thoughts

**12\. The Accused**

_I came to cut you up I came to knock you down_  
 _I came around to tear your little word apart_  
 _I came to rip you up I came to shut you down_  
 _I came around to tear your little word apart_  
 _And tear your soul apart_

_(Garbage – Vow )_

It’s strange how news travels. All it took were a few phone calls to a few carefully selected people– not even in-person meetings, just Jim’s voice on the other side of the line - and suddenly everyone knows Jim is back in business. And it has its effect, you’re reminded of nothing so much as a class of fourteen-year olds sitting up straight and hiding all their stuff when the teacher comes in. Although there might be a bit of relief there as well: there’s something twistedly reassuring about knowing there’s someone in charge, someone who knows exactly what he’s doing, who keeps everything from turning into utter chaos.

Or maybe you’re projecting, because fucking _hell_ you’re glad to have things back to normal. Well, mostly normal.

The door swings open hard enough to make it bang against the wall. You look up, startled out of your thoughts, to see Jim waltzing in, a whirlwind of manic energy.

“Ah, Sebastian,” he says, as if he hasn't seen you in days, even though he left you alone for maybe two hours. He pecks you on the cheek and practically  _skips_  to the kitchen.

“Something up?” You follow him. He’s got that  _vibe_ about him, the one that shows up whenever he’s about to do something really outrageous, spectacular, something no one else would ever think of.

He hops onto the counter. “I'm planning. I want to do something big _,_ something loud.”

“Going after secret agents again?”

“No no no, this isn’t for  _them,_  this is for everyone. The entire world.” He shifts about and gives you his teacher-face, the  _go-on-impress-me_ one. “So tell me, if you wanted to show off, where would you break in, what would you steal?”

“Declaration of Independence?” you suggest.

He swats your shoulder. “Don't be cheeky. I was thinking Bank of England myself. It's a classic, isn't it, a bank robbery?” He leans back on his hands. “But also slightly boring. Or one of the prisons, that would give everyone a scare, but it lacks...”

“Drama?”

He grins. “Are you calling me a drama queen, dear? I was going to say  _panache_.”

You lean against the counter opposite. “What about Buckingham Palace? Messing with the royal family always gets people's attention.”

“Ye-es, but dear old Liz is in Balmoral at the moment, so – ” He snaps his fingers. “Crown Jewels!”

“Tower of London? That  _is_ a classic.”

He sighs. “But I did want to rob a bank. Just so I could say I did, you know?  _James Moriarty, bank robber_. Choices, choices...”

“Why don't you do all three?”

His head snaps up.

“You've multitasked before, it's not like this would be that different,” you add.

He hooks a leg around your waist and pulls you in against the counter. “You're definitely worth the trouble I went through to get you, dear boy,” he purrs, and then he leans in and kisses you. He takes his time for it, hand at the base of your skull, and when he pulls away your knees buckle and you have to steady yourself on the counter.

He smiles. “You do the research on the prison – let's take Pentonville, shall we? - and I'll do the bank and the Tower.”

“Me?” He never really uses for any planning. As soundboard, yes, bouncing ideas off you and asking the occasional question, but that’s just nodding and reacting to what he says, not doing any thinking for yourself.

“Yes, you. You're not completely stupid, I'm sure you can manage.” He nudges you with a foot. “Off you go, make me proud.”

***

He's got a point. After years of watching him scheme you have a pretty good idea how to do this: find the weak link in the chain – the debts, the expensive medical treatments, the dark pasts – and exploit them. After a couple of hours of digging you find a prison guard with a gambling problem and an admin worker who leaked important information to a journalist without her bosses finding out. After that it's just a matter of applying pressure.

Jim passes by from time to time, looking over your shoulder and giving you an approving pat before moving on to his own things.

By the next evening you've laid out a plan. Jim nods and makes pleased little noises, and when you're done explaining he leans back in the sofa – the old stained one, he hasn’t got around to replacing it yet – and clucks his tongue. “Not very original, or exciting, but it'll do the job.”

“What about the Tower and the bank?”

“Bank's all settled. The Tower, well...” He grins. “That one's easy. All I need is a diamond and chloroform. Tell me, Seb, how would I look in a crown?”

“Stunning,” you say drily. “So how are you going escape? Abseil down from the top of the tower? Fly down?” You take a sip from your drink and try to imagine Jim in a paraglider. It would be spectacular enough to suit his tastes, although he isn't exactly the athletic type, so –

“I'm not.”

You look up. “Sorry, what?”

“I'm not. I'm going to get arrested.”

You drop your feet to the ground. “Have you lost your fucking  _mind_?” you ask, voice breaking in disbelief.

He gives you a look.

“Are you that eager to be tortured again? Because if that's it, we can go and play a game of waterboarding in the fucking bath right -”

“It'll be public,” he interrupts you. “They won't be able to make me disappear again. No, I want the whole world to see this. The heist of the century.” He sits back, brooding.

He can't possibly be serious. Challenging the Secret Service is one thing, but his whole damn world is built around the fact that he’s the invisible man, unreachable, above it all. Everyone knows of Moriarty but no one actually  _knows_ him, that’s the fucking  _essence_ of it, but if he gets arrested that means pictures, newspapers and TV, and the entire world learning that Moriarty is just a short pasty bloke in a good suit.

“Is this about Holmes?” you ask.

He rolls his eyes. “Of course it is about Sherlock, do keep up. I want the entire world see me in the dock, see how Sherlock Holmes, the great detective, nails me to the cross. Stop looking like that,” he adds irritably.

You jump up from your chair and start pacing. “Didn't it occur to you that I just  _might_  have a problem with all this?” you snap at him.

He gives you a slight smile. “You think I care what you feel?”

It hits you like a punch, and you freeze mid-stride.  _No._ No, God no, not this, not now. You don't want to think about this, don't –

“I'm not asking you for your  _advice_ ,” Jim says calmly. “You're going to do nothing but watch, and listen, and maybe drive me around a few times. And I am going to smile at every camera they point at me and make sure everyone knows the story, and you will not interfere.” He cocks an eyebrow. “You did promise.”

You're shaking. “I need some air.”

“Yes, I think so too,” he says, already looking back at his computer.

You're not worthy of another glance.

***

There's rain coming, you can taste it in the air. The trees are rustling in the wind and the sky is turning an ominous shade of grey. It feels very fitting.

You would say he's gone mad, but that hardly explains it. He's different, has been different since he came back from his six-week imprisonment. He's become even more volatile, switching between staring morosely out of the window and manic, bubbly joy, nothing in between anymore. And the same towards you: either kisses and adoring looks and  _darlings_ and  _sweethearts_ , or this other thing, casually cruel and ice-cold and dismissive.

You blow smoke at the Serpentine.

And now this. Getting arrested, like a common criminal. No matter the reason – and he _has_ a reason for it, you’re sure of that, he might be mad but he isn’t illogical – there’s simply no coming back from that. All or nothing. Even just the thought of him being in the papers is – it’s absurd, unbelievable. He can’t be serious.

But he is.

You close your eyes and bow your head. The first raindrops are starting to fall.

You don't have a choice, that's the truth. There's no point in trying to convince him this is a bad idea, it's not like he listens to you. It's Jim who calls the shots and all you can do is follow him, like you've always done.  Not that different from what you've done before, it's just that - 

That for the first time you're starting to feel something like doubt.

You chuck the butt of your cigarette down in the water below and go back to the flat.

***

You wake up with a start. A muted rattling sound - guns? No, just the rain against the window. You’re used to that sound, it shouldn’t have woken you up, and the room is silent for the rest, so - wait, silent? You turn on your side.

Jim’s gone.

No reason to be worried, he often gets up at insane hours. You feel the sheets - cold, must’ve left quite a while ago. You should just go to sleep again, leave him to whatever it is he’s doing. Chances are he’ll just be pissed off about being interrupted if you go looking for him now.

A flash of lightning, followed by that tank-rumble of thunder.

You get up, put on some track bottoms and a t-shirt, and look out of the window. It’s heavy rain, not just the usual depressing London drizzle but an apocalyptic downpour, monsoon-in-Karachi style, flooding the streets. He won’t be outside, not in this weather.

You search the flat. The bathroom is empty, as is the living room and the kitchen, but the front door is ajar. His coat is still hanging on the peg, shoes on the rack. You look out into the hallway.

The door to the roof is open.

You run up the stairs two at the time and slam the heavy metal door open. For one heart-rending moment the roof looks empty. You can't move, can't think, can't  _breathe_ -

And then lightning flashes and you see him standing there, a couple of yards from the edge.

“Get back inside, you madman,” you shout over the noise of the rain. He doesn't react, so you resign yourself to getting wet and head out on the roof. It's freezing and you're soaked in a matter of seconds, thin t-shirt doing nothing to keep the cold out. Jim is only wearing pyjamas as well –  _at least he’s not naked_ , you think wildly  -and he looks like a fucking drowning victim, god knows how long he's been out there.

“Isn't it glorious?” he shouts at you. He spreads his arms wide and tilts his head back, a prophet speaking to an enraptured audience. Lightning flashes again, followed by a loud roll of thunder less than a second later.

You take his sleeve and try to pull him back in. He turns to look at you, hair plastered to his skull, eyes wild.

“You can admire the storm from inside,” you shout, “It's not fucking going anywhere.”

He shakes his arm free and pulls you down for a kiss. You can taste the rain on his lips, feel the curve of his spine under the soaked cotton.

You stop trying to be subtle and haul him back in and down the stairs. Once the door is closed the deafening clamour of the rain is transformed into a calming background patter. You put your hands flat on the metal door and bow your head, heart beating like mad.

It takes a long time before you’re relatively calm again.

You push off and go back to the flat. Jim is standing in the middle of the living room, dripping on the floor and staring down at the puddle forming at his feet with a vague sort of amazement.

“I'm wet,” he says, sounding surprised. Completely and utterly out of it, too lost in his own head to grasp even the most basic of things.

You shake your head in exasperation. “Yeah, that's what happens when you go out in a thunderstorm. Go on, get undressed. You’ll catch your death if you keep those on.”

Thankfully he does, ‘cause this whole situation was getting uncannily familiar without that little reminder. You gather the sodden heap of clothes and dump them along with your own clothes in the bath to leak. When you get back to the living room Jim is still standing where you left him, staring at the storm outside.

“I'm going to bed,” you say carefully. “Coming?”

He nods absently but doesn't move. His eyes are wide, lips parted, if you didn't know better you'd say he was high. You make sure the front door is locked and take the key with you to the bedroom, just in case.

A few minutes later the door opens and Jim comes in and crawls underneath the covers, curling his ice cold limbs around yours. You pull him as close as you can and wrap the sheets around the both of you. Jim tucks his face into the crook of your neck, shivering uncontrollably. You rub your hand roughly over his back and he makes a little noise, muttering something.

He would never really do it. He just - he wouldn’t.

***

It isn’t the first time Jim has done something like that. He has danced on the edge of bridges, put your loaded gun in his mouth with the safety off, hovered his fingers over highly effective poison as if he was seconds away from dipping them in and sucking it off. Jim Moriarty flirts with death, it’s what he does.

But this feels different. All the things you’ve seen, all the things you’ve  _done_ , and yet you’ve never been so fucking  _scared_  as you were when you stepped outside and thought, even for a second, that -

Even now your whole body simply seizes up, just thinking about it.

You didn’t sleep well either, one anxiety-filled half-dream after the other, and when you woke up this morning and found the bed empty again you almost had panic attack. You only calmed down when Jim stepped out of the bathroom, toothbrush in his mouth, frowning at you.

There was just something inside of him when you saw him on the roof, something  _broken_.

Not that he even acknowledges it. He’s good at pretending, Jim, when he wants to be, good at ignoring you when you want to talk about something that he doesn’t feel like dealing with. In this case he’s been busying himself with paperwork, sitting cross-legged on the carpet surrounded by little piles of papers and folders, the  _do-not-disturb_  clear in the line of his shoulders, the look of concentration on his face.

“Are you alright?” you ask eventually.

“Of course I'm alright, why wouldn't I be?” he says, a little irritated. He keeps his eyes on the documents.

“You were pretty out of it, last night.”

He pauses.

“You don't remember?” you ask.

He snorts. “Of course I remember. Stop clucking, I'm fine.”

“Until the next time you're not.”

A tiny muscle in his cheek jumps. “Drop it, Sebastian,” he says, voice going cold.

“I'm serious. What if you - ”

“What if I  _what_?” he snarls.

“You've been – You're not – ” You break off, run your hand through your hair, take a deep breath. “It feels like I'm losing you.”

He blinks at you, and then he starts laughing, just a giggle at first, but it grows into a full-blown cackle, like you said something funny, like you -

You push off the wall and stride to the door, grabbing your coat from the chair.

“Oh, Sebastian, darling, that's just  _adorable_ ,” Jim coos at you. You throw the door open hard enough to make it bang against the wall and run down the stairs. Jim follows you to the hallway and leans over the banister. “No, sweetheart, don't  _go_ ,” he shouts after you. “Tell me more. Do you want to kiss it better? Hold me until the bad things go away?”

You practically sprint down the last flight of stairs.

“Don't leave me, my love, I  _need_  you,” he trills, and it echoes off the walls and you can't be away from here soon enough.

***

You kick at a couple of pebbles, hands in your pockets. The anger has mostly faded, leaving you feeling… sick, almost. And tired, obviously.

Christ, second time in as many days. Although it it’s not like you’re not used to fleeing the flat, it’s happened quite a lot in the last five years. Times when Jim went so manic you had a choice between either being pulled into his madness or leaving him to it, or when he kicked you out himself because he needed space. Times when his obscure references and deranged ramblings got on your nerves and you could either leave or start a fight that he might just lose.

_You think I care what you feel?_

This goes beyond simply locking you out. He’s right back to treating you like his dog, after all you’ve done for him, all you fucking  _gave_ him. Like it means nothing.

_You'll do whatever I want you to, won't you?_

Not that you can do anything about it. You’re  _nothing_ without him. Literally, because you've got no bank account of your own, no house. Hell, if what he's been saying is true you don't even have an identity left, all records destroyed or erased. No friends or acquaintances either. There's just him, and it used to be enough, it still is, but he's pushing you away and you can’t understand  _why_.

_You did promise._

But no one could expect you to just stand back and watch while the man you - the man you  _built your entire life around_ goes into self-destruct.

You run a hand over your face. A passer-by gives you a concerned look - fucks knows what your face is showing - and you give her a wan smile. She hurries along, obviously a little disturbed. You turn around and head back.

There’s no point in any of this. He's right, it doesn’t matter what you feel. Jim is going to do whatever the fuck he wants, and all you can do is stand back and watch, like he said, ready to catch him when he crashes and burns. And he will, you can see that now, even Jim Moriarty can't go on indefinitely like that. Something's going to  _break_.

You put your hands back in your pockets and take the next left, back to Knightsbridge.

***

When you come back he's sitting in the sofa, feet on the coffee table. His head is leaning back, hands covering his face in a way that you always connect to being stuck, having some problem he can't find an immediate solution for.

He slides his hands off when you step inside. At least he's not giggling anymore.

“Don't,” you say tiredly. “Just don’t.”

He shakes his head. “Wasn't going to. Close the door, Seb.”

“Sure there's still a place for me here?” you ask, hand on the doorknob. As if there’s anything you can do if he says _no_.

He cocks his head and studies you. “Get in,” he says after a while.

You close the door and lean against it.

“Sit down,” he adds.

You move to the chair. “And are you going to tell me – ”

“Yes.” He looks at you. He’s got dark circles under his eyes, the white of his eyes shot through with blood, too little sleep. “I'll explain, if that makes you feel better.”

“I don't know.” You sit down and rub your eyes. “It might just make me feel worse.”

“And that's a risk we'll just have to take.” He leans back, eyes on the ceiling. “So. I am going to break into one of the most famous places in Britain, and then I'm going to stand trial. Don't tell me you haven't worked out the point of that?”

“You want people to see you, I get that. But why?”

“Because I'm going to use my keycode.”

“The one that doesn't exist?”

“Just so.”

“But - ” you say, frustrated.

Jim smiles at you. “Poor Sebastian, it's all getting a bit too complicated for you, isn't it? Consider this: I want every major player in the world coveting that keycode, and then I'm going to plant it in Baker Street as a pretty little decoy.”

Holmes again. “If you want him dead, you could just put a hit on him.”

He sighs. “This isn't about killing him, darling. No no no, this is about so much more. Because it won't be me in that prisoner's dock, you see. It'll be an out-of-work actor, an old friend of Sherlock's, desperate for money.”

“I thought  _you_  were going to - ”

“I am.”

And finally,  _finally_ you catch up. Reputations and appearances and make-believe, the high point of his career, the ultimate manipulation. That’s what he’s been working for all these months, although fuck knows how much of it was planned beforehand. And you’re not stupid, you realised something big was coming, but...

But this? It’s absurd, it’s insane, it’s - Jesus fucking Christ, it’s  _frightening_.

“And the light of realisation dawns in his eyes,” Jim drawls.

You look up at him. “Holmes. You're going to make Holmes look like the diabolical mastermind.”

He grins wide, his cruel devil's smile. “The media will love it. Genius discovered to be a fraud, pride comes before the fall, all that  _rot_. And then he'll just need one final push...” His smile slides off his face and he leans forward, dead serious. “Do you see it now, Sebastian?”

You shake your head. “It won't work. It can't, not in a million years, this is too – ”

“It will.” He stands up. “It has to. And I don't need your trust, Sebastian, but I do need your cooperation, so tell me, what's it going to be?”

He stops in front of you and you look up at him. And yes, he might be tearing you fucking apart, but, well.

“You've got both,” you say hoarsely.

He blinks, opens his mouth, closes it again. Caught by surprise, and isn't that a fucking rarity. You take his hip and pull him down. He drops down into your lap, hands on your shoulders.

“Sometimes, Jim,” you say in his ear, “you need to remember that I'm not like other people.”  

“You're not, are you?” His fingertips brush against the nape of your neck. “My darling boy.”

***

Here’s the thing about sex: it’s honest. No one can fake a hard-on, or pretend to come - not men, at least. Or women, now that you think of it, no matter how hard they moan and yell, you just can’t feign those mouths going slack and muscles spasming, that abandon. There’s nothing graceful or dignified about it, but god is it  _real_.

And Jim, well, Jim absolutely refuses to talk about anything personal but he speaks epics when he’s fucking. Like the way he kisses you, graceless and too hard, hands twisting in your hair, that’s  _anger_  and  _fear_. The care in his touch, the way he allows your hands to go where they want, that’s  _apology_. And when he leans his forehead against yours, shaking and hair curling loose with sweat, that’s  _trust_.

You thrust and he gasps, grip tightening on your shoulders. He leans back and closes clumsy fingers on your jaw. “You’re overthinking again.”

“I am. Sorry.”

He rocks forwards, knees braced on either side of your hips. It’s too close, no space for manoeuvring, just Jim in your lap and the back of the couch against your shoulders, claustrophobic, cramped. You take his cock in your fist and he groans, leans back, goes forward again. You put your other hand on his back and pull him in.

He doesn’t say sorry but he does sigh into your ear, a small intensely private noise that no one else ever hears, just you.  _Trust_ , again, and you can take the cruelty and the superiority and the insults as long as you can have  _this_  as well.

“Can you - ”

“Yeah, I’m - I’m there.”

He pulls back and looks at you. You’re both panting, both close to the edge, and it’s at times like this that everything gets this extra bit of intensity, of meaning. You press your face against his shoulder, look up again. He runs both hands over your hair, to your neck.

“Jim…”

“Shush.” He closes his eyes and leans his head back, throat bared, open and undefensive. That pained expression on his face meaning he's only one good push away from coming. "Sebastian," he groans.

You twist your hand and he jerks forward, mouth open. He falls heavily against you and throws his arm around your shoulder, his come wet against your stomach.

It isn’t enough for you, not quite, but he notices and digs his nails into your shoulders, claws down, and clenches deliberately around you, and that does the trick. You throw your head back as you come, but Jim takes your neck and pulls you close to his chest. You dig your fingers into his arms and gasp something, you barely know what, until the aftershocks have died away and the world is back to normal.

He pulls out but stays in your lap. You lean your head against his shoulder and just breathe for a bit, his fingers carding through your hair. He smells of sweat and sex and that poncy aftershave he insists on using. It's nice - or maybe it's just basic conditioning, associating that scent with mindblowing sex.

You lean back and wipe a few sweaty locks from his forehead, fingers still uncoordinated, clumsy. “Your legs are going to cramp up if you stay like this,” you say.

“How’s the hip?” he asks pointedly, and you roll your eyes. You slide your hand up from his neck to his jaw, trace his nose, his cheekbones. He closes his eyes like a contented cat.

“Your face is going to be everywhere, isn’t it?” you say thoughtfully.

His eyes open. “This again?”

“I’m a bit worried, alright. Can you blame me?”

“I don’t walk to talk about this,” he says, which is unusually straightforward of him.

“Fine.” You run your hand down to his shoulder, thumb resting on the scar on his collarbone, the one you still don’t know the story of. Jim’s hand comes up and covers yours.

“You still want to know?” he asks, looking down.

“What, the scar? Yeah, but…” You trail off, uneasy. It’s one of those unwritten rules: you _never_ ask about Jim’s past. And it’s none of your business anyway, not really.

He leans forward, chest against yours. Avoiding your eyes? You stroke his back, feeling the knobs of his spine against your palm, the slow movement of his ribcage as he breathes.

“It happened a long time ago,” he mutters.

“Guessed as much. But…” You hesitate. “But they have a way of sticking, haven’t they? Those early things?”

He hums but doesn’t reply.

“You don’t have to - ”

“Self-inflicted,” he blurts out.

“What?”

“The wound. Scar.”

You turn your head and stare at his back. “You... did that to yourself?”

“It was a gambit,” he mumbles.

Right.” You put your other hand on his nape. “Okay, so what, you challenged someone?”

“I told them someone else did it. He got the blame for it. It was perfect.”

You cock your head. “How old were you?”

“Nine.”

“Fuck.”

He laughs, a little tired. “Quite.”

You stroke the hair at his nape, lost in thought. Nine-year old Jim, maiming himself to get at someone else. It makes sense, in that fucked-up uniquely-Jim way.

He leans back again and runs his knuckles over your cheek. “I, like you, was short and thin and younger than everyone else. And if you can’t be strong…”

“Be a conniving ruthless little shit,” you say, shaking your head. “You’re unbelievable.”

He smiles and looks down. “But you do believe, don’t you, Sebastian?”

“I’m a deeply devoted worshiper,” you say solemnly. He laughs again.

You trail your hand down, put it flat against his breastbone, feeling his heart beat beneath your palm. It’s calm and steady.

_A deeply devoted worshiper_. It might have been a joke, but... It does come close to worship, this thing you feel for him. Something far more extreme than just plain loyalty. It scares you a little, sometimes, those moments when you suddenly realise how fucking  _deep_ this goes.

“I do  _know_ , Sebastian,” he says suddenly.

“Know what?” A significant silence. You don’t look up. “You know, but you don’t particularly care, right?” you say, staring at the dip beneath his ribcage.

He takes your chin and forces you to look at him. He looks tired, oddly enough. “It’s a bit more complicated than that,” he says.

“I wouldn’t know, would I?”

You stare at him, but he doesn’t look away, or try to change the subject. He just lets you watch.

“Tell me something,” you say.

He shifts uneasily. “What?”

“Why?”

“I told you - ”

“That’s not what I meant. What’s beneath all this?” He moves again, sits up as if he wants to leave but you pull him back by the waist, keeping him close. “Please. Tell me.”

His mouth works, and now it’s his turn to avert his eyes. “It’s because - Because I – ” He meets your eyes again, and for one second he looks painfully, devastatingly  _young_.

And then the shutters come down again and he gives you one of his hardest smiles. “Because what else is there?” he says, and swings his leg off.

You rub your eyes. “Talk to me, that’s all I’m asking, alright? Share something, occasionally. I’m not you, I can’t read minds.”

“I have better things to do, Sebastian.”

“Jim.” You reach out and catch his wrist. He gives your hand an icy look, but you don’t let go. “ _Let me help_.”

He visibly hesitates, and then he brushes his fingertips over your mouth. “You already are.”

He pulls away again and you fall back against the couch, exhausted.

***

A couple of days later Holmes is back in the news, with a spectacular catch. Ricoletti’s capture means a power vacuum, and usually Jim would be all over this, making sure the right candidate comes out on top. But now he barely cares: he takes one look at the paper, one at you, and then he says  _you can sort this out, can’t you?_

It isn’t the first time. MI-5 has been sniffing around more than one of Jim’s projects but all he says is  _deal with it, there’s a good boy_. Nothing catches his attention, nothing matters except Holmes. And everything non-important gets delegated to you.

One of the top guys in weapons trade asks for a meeting, and Jim shrugs, sends you instead, and when the man in question addresses you as  _Mr Moriarty_ you can’t really bring yourself to correct him.

“You need to sort out your priorities,” you say when you come back.

Jim gives you an ironic look. “And what makes you think I haven’t already?”

***

And then, far too soon, it’s September and the great day has finally arrived, after weeks of Jim bouncing off the walls in excitement. It would almost be a relief, the anticipation finally over, except it means he’s going away again.

You shake your head and try to dislodge the gloominess. “And you're sure there won't be a coup or something?” you ask.

“Of course I am,” he replies from inside the walk-in wardrobe. Because naturally the  _heist of the century_  requires appropriate attire. And Jim’s disguises are always exceedingly thought-through: everything, even the smallest of details, is chosen with careful deliberation.

He sticks his head out of the wardrobe and looks around the room, and then he disappears again. “They didn't last time, did they?” he says.

“Yeah, but that was because I convinced everyone you were still in the picture. This isn't - ”

“You didn't.”

You pause. “Sorry?”

He leans back out again and gives you a look. “People didn't behave because they thought I was still around. They behaved because they were afraid of  _you_.” He goes back to his clothes.

“ _Why_?” you ask, amazed. “I mean, you have your reputation, but I'm just - ”

“We've been over this, Sebastian,” he says, voice muffled. “I'm sure you'll work it out eventually for yourself.”

“Right.” You frown at the wall. You always assumed you were just riding on the coattails of Jim’s reputation, but... And that’s what your doctor had said, wasn’t it, that people were scared of you? Not Jim,  _you_.

It’s a strange thought.

Jim steps out of the wardrobe. “And, what do you think?” He spreads his arms and spins around, showing off the jeans, the beige jacket.

You raise an eyebrow. “What, no cape? No all-black leather? I thought you wanted to make an  _impression_?”

“I have to get in, first, remember? I need to look harmless.”

“Well, in that case...” You dive into the wardrobe and rifle through the hats. “There.” You throw him a cap and he catches it.

“You’re right, this is perfect.” He puts it on and grins at the mirror. It’s still his own smile, the too-wide baring-his-canines one, and it fits the innocuous clothes about as well as a Kalashnikov in a Toys-R-Us.

“You might want to tone down the slasher grin.”

“Oh, right.” And as you watch the devious expression on his face gives way to a wide-eyed impressed one. “Is that where they cut Queen Elizabeth’s head off?” he drawl in some unplaceable American accent. “Oh,  _wow_.”

“Yeah, don’t overdo it.”

He takes off the hat and pats it absently against his wrist. “Now, I think I’ve got everything. Have I got everything? I’m not sure, I’m all giddy.”

“Diamond?” you ask. “Tranquilizer? Phone?”

“Triple check. Well, I’ll be off then.” He turns to leave.

“And that’s it, is it?” you ask, frustration rearing its ugly head again.

He stops and turns around. “What?”

“For fuck’s sake, Jim, I – ” You turn away, run your hand through your hair. _I don’t want you to go_ , but chances are he’ll just laugh again. “I hate this,” you mutter.

He sighs. “Sebastian…”

You turn around and glare at him. He takes two quick steps to you and pulls you down by the neck. He kisses you the way he always does, teeth sharp against your mouth, tongue probing - like he’s expecting you to pull away and he won’t let you.

And then he steps back. “You’ll be fine,” he says patiently. “At least this time you’ll be able to follow what’s happening, hm?”

“Yeah, that’s a real fucking reassurance,” you say darkly.

He smiles. “I’ll be back before you know it. Or,” his smile turns sly, “don’t you _trust_ me?”

You roll your eyes. “Right, piss off before my self-control fails me and I give you a black eye, alright?”

He chucks you underneath your chin and turns on his heel. You go to the window and lean your forehead against the cool glass. A minute or so later Jim steps out of the flat, a bounce in his step.

You keep watching until he’s out of view.

***

You're not allowed to come and watch in the crowd, too risky, too dangerous. Instead, you have to sit at home, ready to answer all the panicked calls that will start to come once the news gets out, criminals and politicians and all the other men and women who have done business with Moriarty, terrified their dirty little secret is going to come out. It's not something you're looking forward to, playing fucking customer service.

He does send you a picture, sceptre in his hand, expression beatific. You immediately save it as your screensaver, because if Jim is going to disappear for another month you'll take anything you can get to cheer you up.

The first phone calls and emails start coming about an hour after that, when the first grainy amateur pictures and police rumours hit the internet. By six o'clock the footage is on the news, the name  _Moriarty_ is mentioned, and then the line  _really_  gets flooded.

***

His face is everywhere after that, his name too. It's all everyone is talking about, Jim Moriarty and his impossible heist. You keep every article that mentions him and laugh your arse off at their speculations:  _A desperate plea for attention; James Moriarty, of no fixed abode_. God, if only they knew.

The trial is doing the rounds in London’s seedier circles, too. You're working around the clock to calm down panicking associates, to keep Jim's web from collapsing.  _It’s fine_ , you keep saying,  _he knows what he’s doing, you’re not at risk_. Even though you know they are, Jim said as much, but he simply doesn’t care for anything that’s not related to the Holmes brothers.

But there’s a whole other subset of criminals who are suddenly _very_ interested.

“How did he do it?” yet another client asks over the phone. German accent, female, hasn’t given a name yet. You reach for the folder lying beneath the front seat of the car, keeping the phone wedged between your shoulder and ear.

“He’s got a keycode,” you say, struggling to keep serious. _He has a magic wand which he only needs to wave for every door to open_. God, how the fuck can people be so gullible? “A universal one, a skeleton key.”

She breathes in, sharply. “And is it – is it for sale? We would be very interested…”

“I’ll bet you are,” you say, grinning. “But there are other interested parties as well, of course. If you’ll give us a name and number we’ll contact you, how’s that sound?”

There’s a muffled discussion on the other side of the line, and then she comes back. “Alright. The name is Gruner and you can contact us on this number.”

“Excellent. Looking forward to doing business with you.”

You end the call and write down the name on the bottom of the list. It’s getting quite impressive, name after name, everything from official government services to terrorist organisations. You scribble a question mark and _possibly German_ after her name – leave Jim to find out who she’s working for – and close the folder again, sighing.

You’re tired. Most of the potential clients aren’t content with a phone call, they want to see someone. And obviously this is far too delicate to entrust to some lackey, so you've been busy going from meeting to meeting, taking dozens of phone calls inbetween, and trying to keep it all relatively organised.

It barely leaves you time to worry about Jim.

You throw the folder back underneath the seat and get out of the car. Dealing with all of Jim's clients is more than enough work already, but you still have the other stuff to take care of: rigging a trial might be child’s play but it still needs to be done. And wouldn’t it be funny if you forgot and Jim ended up in prison anyway?

Well, depending on your definition of funny, of course.

You ring the doorbell and adjust your shoulder holster so it’s nice and noticeable. Nothing like a hint of firearm to get someone to play along.

The door opens. “Hullo, Mr Crayhill,” you say, grinning like a shark. Crayhill tries to close the door in your face but you get a foot in before he can. “Why, if I didn't know better I'd say you weren't pleased to see me.”

He sighs and stops struggling, his shoulders slumping. “Come in, I suppose.”

You step inside. “Thanks.”

Crayhill's flat is still as painfully tasteful as the first time you came here, although the façade is starting to crack. There are papers scattered everywhere, for one thing, several half-empty boxes of takeaway littering every possible surface. And Crayhill himself is starting to fray, too. The circles under his eyes are getting really noticeable.

You cross the room, leaving a dirty footprint on a stray page, and sit down in his best chair. He scuttles after and sits down as well.

“So, any messages?” you ask.

“Yes, he er – he told me to give you a name. Kitty Riley.”

“And that's it?”

“Yes, for the most part. Er, that is to say...”

You duck your head and look at him more closely. “Are you  _blushing,_ Mr Crayhill? Has he been saying naughty things?”

He squirms, ears going pink. “He, er, he...”

“For someone who earns his living by talking, you do stammer a lot, if you don't mind me saying,” you say with sadistic delight.

“The date for the trial has been set. It's in a week's time. Please.” He wrings his hands. “I just want this to be over.”

“And once it is, you can retire to Barbados with all the money you've earned. Think of all the fun you shall have.”

He buries his head in his hands. You lean back and cock your head, considering. Playing around is all good and well, but if he actually breaks you have a problem. And if he’s had to deal with Jim for any length of time it’s only natural he’s getting unnerved.

“Look,” you say, soothing. “Just play along, do as he says, and you'll be fine. He always keeps his promises.”

“It isn't just what he's asking me to do, you know,” he says quietly, more to himself than to you. “I could deal with it if it was just that. But... But it's the way he looks at me. At everyone. That man isn't  _human_.”

“You're very perceptive.” You stand up. “Send him my love. Oh, by the way, was the suit okay?”

“Yes, he was very... very  _pleased_ with it,” he says, with a seriously disturbed look in his eyes.

“Thought he would be. So, Kitty Riley, was it?”

He nods, not moving to stand up as well.

“Good. I'll let myself out. And remember, Mr Crayhill.” You grasp his chin and force him to look at you. “No funny business.”

***

Kitty Riley turns out to be a struggling freelance journalist with a rather large internet footprint. Two minutes of googling later you've found everything you need, including her favourite pub – gotta love Facebook.

You find her there that evening. She's wearing jeans and sensible heels, the sort that give her extra height without slowly murdering her feet. Practical, then, but also concerned about her appearance – amazing how much you can tell about a woman by her shoes.

But there's something else, in the overly intense way she's staring at the TV screen hanging in the corner, the way her fingers are twitching - you recognise despair when you see it. An out-of-work journalist of mediocre talent, struggling to make ends meet, itching for a scoop… She’s practically gift-wrapped.

She barely looks up when you sit down next to her at the bar.

“Buy you a drink?” you ask with your most charming smile – which is pretty damn good, even if you're saying it yourself.

She gives you a fleeting look. “Sorry, love, you're not my type.”

“Nor are you,” you say, which is a lie, but it catches her attention. “And my boyfriend would kill me if he saw me flirting,” and that one's probably true.

She raises her eyebrows in surprise.

“It's just a friendly drink.” You smile again. “You look like you could use it.”

“Well, that's true. Fine, go on then.”

You lean forward and catch the attention of the bartender. “Pint for me and a Glenfiddich for the lady.”

She gives you a suspicious look, one hand surreptitiously disappearing into her handbag. “How did you know that?”

“Lucky guess?” The bartender sets your drinks down in front of you and you clink your glass against hers. “Cheers. Nah, it's just a trick. Looking for clues? Easy, if you know how.”

She relaxes a little. “Yeah? Go on then, tell me.”

“I don't give up my secrets that easily.”

She laughs and takes a large gulp from her whisky. “Please?” she adds, with a rather fetching smile.

“Oh, you know." You wave a campy hand. "Someone with ink on their fingers writes a lot, someone with mud on their shoes isn't an office worker, that sort of thing. It's a great party trick.”

She hums and looks back at the TV, where the newsreader is just starting on the Moriarty trial. Timed it perfectly.

“It's weird, it's like I know the guy,” you say when they show the by now infamous picture of Jim smirking sideways at the camera. You always get a little twinge when you see that one, but no, not now, you need to concentrate.

She looks at you immediately. “Know him?”

“Yeah, like I've seen him before somewhere. Can't for the life of me remember where, though.” You take a sip and grin. “Fancy that, me knowing a master criminal.”

“Not the shady type, are you?” she asks with a smile.

You put on an affronted expression. “Me? I'm an accountant.”

“Really,” she says, looking down at your bruised knuckles. Not stupid, this one.

“Yeah, why are you – Oh, these?” You raise your hand. “An accountant who likes martial arts in his free time. That's hardly a crime, is it? I mean, if you're raising two kids you've got to have some way to release the tension.”

“You've got kids?” she asks, more out of politeness than interest.

“Yeah, two boys, three and five years old. They're a handful. Thank god for the TV, though, put them in front of the screen and at least they'll be quiet for thirty minutes. Which reminds me, I should probably get back to the ball and chain about now.”

She hums again, but her eyes are going distant. The seed's been planted.

***

You leave the cheerful gay dad persona behind in the pub like an old coat. Even as you step outside you can feel your shoulders straightening, your steps growing longer. This must be how Jim feels, every time he slips back into his own skin.

And you need to be yourself again for this last meeting. You run through the facts on your phone. Rahman Ghorbani, a British envoy of Al Qaida, ordered to find out about the keycode, and too self-important to be content with anything but a face-to-face meeting. It might have pissed you off before, someone  _demanding_  to meet, but you find it more amusing than anything else. It's not like he's a threat to you.

It's not like  _anyone_ is a threat to you.

You slip the phone back in your pocket and get out of the car. He wanted to meet in a warehouse, after hours, _just like in the movies_. God, the kid’s got no idea what he’s playing at.

He’s waiting inside, surrounded by half a dozen cronies. He looks agitated, pacing, twitchy – either nervous or coked-up. And he hasn’t noticed you yet.

You clear your throat and he whirls around. For a moment his face shows pure fear, but then he gets himself under enough control to settle on an angry scowl. Probably thinks it’s intimidating.

"Mr Ghorbani," you drawl.

“Is it true Moriarty has a way of getting into anywhere he wants?” he asks in harshly accented English. It's posturing, you know for a fact that he went to public school and that he’s only been  _Rahman_  for three years.

“Pretty much. It’s a piece of computer code, guaranteed to get you into any system you might need.”

“I want it,” he snaps. “We’ll pay.”

“I'll add you to the list, then, shall I?” you say pleasantly.

“The  _list_?”

“Well, yes. What, you didn't think you were the only one interested, did you?” You smile at him. “I'm sure you can think of some way to prove your worth to Mr Moriarty.”

“Prove my – who do you think you are?” he splutters, and the stupid fuck actually pulls his gun and aims it at your forehead. The room goes eerily quiet.

You drop your eyes to the gun, and then back to him. Oh  _please_.

“Who do I think I am?” you say softly. His hand is starting to shake. “I hardly need to tell you that, do I?” The bodyguards take a step back. “I'm sure you've heard all about me.”

You can feel Jim's shadow standing at your shoulder. Stories and reputations. Make them believe what you want them to believe.

Ghorbani’s face has gone the colour of whey.

“Now put away your gun,  _Harry._  You're embarrassing yourself.” You curl your lip in disgust and he obeys, shaking all over.

“We’ll contact you. Gentlemen.” You nod at them and leave. The room stays dead silent until you're outside.

You can practically hear their collective sigh of relief once you're gone.

***

By the time you get home the sun's gone completely down. The weather is starting to turn, the dying remains of summer finally giving way to cold autumn wind.

You pour yourself a whisky and go over to the window. London is never dark, and tonight everything is illuminated by multicoloured lights. You're tempted to go to Jim's study and pull the plug on the city's energy grid, just to stop it from fucking  _twinkling_.

Last time he left you to run his business for him you had been uneasy, like playing an instrument you only know two notes of. But that isn’t the case anymore, is it? You look down at your hands, steady and callused. The big epiphany.

It’s not how they see you, but how  _you_ see  _them_.

Because the criminal world runs on reputations and rumours, urban legends, and Jim might be the fucking king when it comes to that but everyone does it. Crafting their own stories and wearing them like they’re armour, so they can make other people believe they’re unkillable. That’s how it works, that’s what Jim told you the very first time you went along with him: they could’ve killed him on the spot but the thought didn’t even cross their mind.

Except it doesn’t work on you. You don’t give a flying fuck about all that shit, you’ve never been blinded by the glitter and glamour. You look beyond that, it's what you do, it's what you've always done, from the moment your mother first explained why you had to smile at the strangers even if you didn't feel like it. It's how you caught Jim's attention, seeing through his neat little disguise to the  _thing_ beneath.

But Jim might be the only person alive whose disguise is not there as a defence but as a decoy. Other people only ever try to cover up their weakness. That's the truth they try to hide, the truth you know so very well by now. Everyone is flesh and blood and bone. No one is invulnerable.

No wonder everyone’s shit-scared of you.

***

The nice thing about courthouses is that they’re so full of people you can blend in without any effort, especially if you’re wearing a suit and look professional. And apart from that it’s just the usual trick for disappearing: look busy and pretend you know where you’re going. In this case it takes a few tries before you find the right courtroom. You almost bump into Kitty Riley on the way there, and only a quick swerve towards the men’s saves you from a disastrous encounter.

Jim is going to kill you for this.

You slip quietly into the back of the room. No Holmes or Watson in sight, no one who could recognise you. It’s as safe as it’s ever going to be.

It’s going directly against Jim’s orders. Time was you wouldn’t even have _considered_ something like this.

The man himself is standing in the prisoner's dock, hands cuffed behind his back, looking bored out of his mind. It's an exquisite performance, of course: Jim Moriarty playing Richard Brook playing Jim Moriarty, subtle enough that even Holmes won't notice, give the man an Oscar.

He hasn’t spotted you yet, standing as he is with the back to the seats, but when the next witness gets sworn in he starts looking around idly. You could still disappear now, he would never know.

You don’t move.

A movement from below catches your attention. Crayhill has spotted you and almost falls of his chair in fear, but he’s smart enough not to show anything after that initial reaction. But Jim has noticed. Even if you can’t see his face you recognise the way his shoulders shift, the way his hands move. He turns around slowly. You hold your breath.

His eyes meet yours. It’s a shock, sharp and painful, for you and for him, ‘cause his eyes widen, and for a fraction of a second he even breaks character.

Your hands tighten on the edge of the bench. He looks down again and smiles.

You want to scream and shout and rage, want to storm that fucking prisoner's dock, drag him out and blow up the entire fucking courtroom, 'cause all this is a fucking joke, a parody. You want him out, want him safe, want him  _back_.

He glances back up, as if he heard your anger, but his mask is back on and you might as well be staring at a stranger. You force yourself to calm down again.

“ - the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth,” the witness proclaims. Not that he will, he’s one of yours which means he’s going to lie beautifully and perfectly and unnoticeably. And the jury is going to swallow it all because they know what happens if they don’t.

You get up again and leave the courtroom. No sense in staying there and seething. Besides, it won’t be long now: the prosecutor is almost finished, the closing speeches won't take that long, and you'd be surprised if the jury needs more than thirty minutes. He’ll be back before sunset, and then you can shout at him as much as you want.

You uncurl your first, stretch your fingers. Your palm hurts from where your nails dug in, but it helps, gives you something to focus on beside this helpless possessive rage. 

Loud voices make you look up. John Watson is standing outside, too busy shouting at a security guard to pay attention to anyone else. Not that he could recognise you even if you would jump up and down right in front of his nose; Jim might be known now but you’re still a big question mark.

Your phone rings. “Yes?”

“Is this - I was told I could reach Moriarty through this number.”

Another client. Christ, where are they all coming from? “You were told right. Give me a number and a name and we’ll contact you.”

“Can’t I - ”

“Name. Number. You’ll hear from us.”

For a few seconds the other line is silent, and then he gives you a name and a number, and ends the call less than a second after he says the last digit.

Your very own reign of terror. You’re already getting tired of it.

***

You pick Jim up in a car with mirrored windows after the verdict -  _not guilty_ , as if it was ever going to be anything else - and drive him straight to Baker Street. Neither of you says anything. He focuses on the folder lying on the back seat – a list of all the interested parties for his made-up skeleton key, some cases that need his immediate attention – and you keep your eyes on the road. It’s a tense, uncomfortable kind of silence, the kind you never had before.

You pull up around the corner of 221B. He throws you a quick look before he gets out, but still doesn’t say anything. When he comes out again, about fifteen minutes later, there’s something hard in his eyes. The way he moves, too, it’s too controlled to be natural.

You drive to Knightsbridge in silence. He’s watching you, the back of your neck is tingling, but you can’t really bring yourself to speak, or to look back. He leaves you be, although fuck knows if he’s doing that for your sake or for his.

You pull up in front of the flat, switch off the engine, put your hands on the wheel. “We're here,” you say flatly. He doesn't reply. You get out. He doesn't follow you, so you lean against the wall and light a cigarette, every movement sharp and quick.

You can't make sense of your feelings.

After a while Jim gets out too. He strolls over, plucks the cigarette from between your lips and leans against the wall, next to you. You light another one.

“Well, Sebastian,” he says after a while. “Have you decided yet? You want to kiss me or punch me?”

You take an unsteady breath. “Right now? Pretty much both.”

He leans his head back and blows out a stream of smoke. A pair of curtains swish shut across the street. After all those years, people must have  _some_ idea what their next-door neighbour really is.

You smoke in silence for a while. Even though he's standing close enough to touch, it feels like he's miles away. Like you haven't realised yet he's back, for real, properly.

“So,” you say brusquely. “How was prison?”

He shrugs. “Boring. They kept me in a separate cell. It's a pity, I was really looking forward to the showers, see what they would try to do to me.”

Your fingers cramp around your cigarette and you see him noticing it.

“I never thought you'd be the protective type,” he says, corner of his mouth curling up.

“I'd never thought you'd be the  _self-destructive_ type.”

He takes another deep drag, gives no answer.

“I came to the trial,” you say.

“I know, I did see you. Did anyone else - ”

“No.”

“Then it doesn’t matter.” He drops the butt of his cigarette on the pavement and grinds it out. No anger, no amusement, just this flat blank nothingness.  

“Your empire's collapsing,” you try again, watching him. “Once they saw you on the news, everyone started panicking. Associates disappearing left right and centre.”

He shrugs. “I'll rein them in again. They're not important.”

“Not important?”

He looks up at you. “There are only very few things that are of real importance now, Sebastian.”

“And Sherlock Holmes is one of them, I'm guessing?”

He looks ahead, eyes distant. His hands are steady, his breathing normal, but there's still something  _off_  about him, as if he's still not quite here. He seems to notice you watching and clucks his tongue. “Stop worrying, it's getting annoying,” he says, without turning his head.

“Last time – ”

“– was completely different. It wasn't nearly as interesting, this one. Went like clockwork.” And he should sound pleased but he doesn't, and everything about him feels  _wrong_.

The tip of the cigarette burns your fingers and you drop it with a curse.

He looks up at you. “You're not going soft, are you?” he asks.

You lean your head back against the brick and close your eyes. “Sort of the opposite.”

***

Once he's inside he goes a little weird, spinning around slowly, running his hands over every piece of furniture and knickknack and folder that's lying around. You leave him to it and go to the bedroom to take a nap.

You didn't get much sleep last night.

Not that there's much difference now. Instead of sleeping you just lie on the bed, hands folded beneath your head, looking at the ceiling. You should be happy he's back, but instead... Instead there's something else going on, something you can't even put a name to.

For a few minutes you allow yourself to drift off, but it doesn't do much good. Your mind is playing tricks on you, running the same images over and over again. Jim in the prisoner's dock. Jim soaked on the roof, arms wide, completely out of it. Jim, blank-eyed and broken.

When you open your eyes again he's standing at the foot of the bed, still in his grey suit but barefoot, looking at you. You shift up unto your elbows, try to read his expression. It’s difficult. You’ve grown good at recognising his moods over the years, but right now you have no idea what that hard, focused look in his eyes means.

“What do you need?” you ask.

He snaps his fingers and you slide out of the bed without a second of hesitation, move to stand in front of him. He puts both hands on your shoulders, slides them down, and starts unbuttoning your shirt. There's something deliberate about it, every movement meticulous and calculated. You keep your hands at your sides and watch him frown at your chest.

Once the shirt is off he moves on to your trousers, undoing the buttons with the same slow precision. You have to bite your lip to keep quiet when his fingers brush against your crotch. But he doesn’t do anything, no leering, no appreciative squeeze, he’s about as impersonal as a nurse.

He slides your trousers and underwear down and you step out of them, and then you're naked in front of him. It takes everything you’ve got not to reach out - he’s  _here_ , he’s  _close_ , he’s  _touching you_ \- but what if it’s the wrong thing to do? Better to do nothing and let him order you around.

He gives the bed a significant look and you take the hint and lie down. He doesn’t join you, just stands there, hand on the bedpost, watching you. Maybe he’s waiting for you to react, or maybe he’s taking his time to decide what to do next - both have happened in the past. But he seems to studying you, eyes going from your feet to your chest, and when he meets your eyes it’s hard, incredibly painfully fucking hard, not to look away.

And then _finally_ he moves. He crawls on the bed, throws a knee over your hips and leans down. Normally this would be where you would joke about getting stains on his suit, but you stay quiet. The silence is starting to feel heavy and sacred, a third presence in the room.

He almost always talks during sex.

He kisses you with almost the exact opposite of his usual ferocity. You raise your arm but he pushes it away before you can reach him.  _Lie still_ , the first hint he gives you that’s anything like an order.

His mouth goes from your lips to your throat and down, pausing over your heart, kissing all the way down to your stomach, hipbone, lower still. You bite your knuckles to keep quiet, but he reaches up and gently pulls your hand from your mouth. You try to catch his hand but he pulls away again. What the _hell_ is going on, what’s happening inside his head?

It’s all soft gentle kisses and feathery strokes, slow and light and not nearly enough to get you off, but it’s doing something to you. Usually arousal - especially around Jim - takes you quick and hard and above all  _urgent_ , but this feels different, deeper somehow, patient, and far more dangerous. Like you’re in trance, aware of every nerve ending in your body.

He crawls back up and lies on top of you, head in the crook of your shoulder, still fully clothed. His breathing has gone carefully regular, like yours whenever you're close to losing it. But that's absurd, Jim has never needed tricks to keep control of himself.

You put a hand on his nape and he gives a little sigh. He pushes up, forearms cradling your head, and rests his forehead against yours. You close your eyes, hot air brushing your mouth every time he exhales.

You don't know what to do. You  _don’t know what to do_ and it’s scaring the shit out of you and still he’s silent. You wrap your other arm around his waist and pull him a little closer.

“Say it,” he whispers.

It's been literally years since he last needed to hear it out loud. Something inside you goes ice cold.

“Yours.”

He gives a shaking little laugh. You burrow a hand beneath his shirt, palm against the base of his spine. His skin feels feverishly hot but his suit is still a barrier between you  

You sit up slowly, not losing body contact, and push his jacket off his shoulders. He only half cooperates with undressing, breaking off every now and then just to pull you close, as if -

As if he’s afraid of losing you.

Once he’s undressed he pushes you carefully down again. Chest to chest, hip to hip, you can practically feel his heart beating against yours. You nudge his hip and he rolls onto his side, still clinging to you. You close your eyes and hold him as close as you can, because for some reason this feels fragile, dangerous.

You breathe in time with him, feeling the rise and fall of his chest against yours. It's like you've never been more  _aware_ of him as you are now, the roughness of his cheek, the warmth of his hands, his ribs and hips and elbow pressing against you. There’s nothing left between you, no defences or walls or secrets. The anger and frustration of the last few months seem unreal.

How can you be angry when you’ve got this?

 


	13. The Fall & Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which All Things End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: dubious consent, PTSD, gore, explicit sex, BDSM-gone-wrong, breathplay, reference to addiction, domestic abuse-overtones (physical and emotional), mental health issues, brief bit of ableist language, suicidal ideations, major character death.

**13\. The Fall**

_And I wanted to believe_  
_You would win_  
_The war in your head_  
_That I did not understand_  
_(Johnette Napolitano – Suicide Song)_

 

The flat is starting to deteriorate. Stains on the sofa and the chairs, cracks and splinters in the furniture. God knows it's not the first time things get broken – you're on bed number eleven by now – but Jim used to replace anything that was less than perfect almost immediately. Obsessed with order and neatness.

He isn't, anymore.

And then there are the wall decorations. The wallpaper is covered with his diagrams. He used to wipe them off when he was done with them, but these days he doesn't bother. He keeps reusing them, too, and they've turned into one giant undecipherable connected map of his mind. It's making the living room feel disturbingly claustrophobic.

_“- with several experts giving their opinion on the question that is still on everyone’s mind: How did James Moriarty get acquitted? Joining us are – ”_

You turn and frown at the TV. “Can you turn that shit off, please?” you snap.

“Why?” Jim grins and leans back, folding his hands behind his head. “I quite enjoy seeing myself. If I knew I was that photogenic I’d have done this ages ago.”

You snatch the remote from his lap and switch it off. He pouts at you but something about you keeps him from taking it further.

It isn’t just the flat that’s coming apart at the seams.

He stands up, stretching, and walks over to his wall-of-insanity.

“You can cross out Leeds,” you say, watching his back. He seems calm, but, well, he’s not the most stable of persons.

“Why?” he asks, looking over his shoulder at you.

“Had them eradicated, they were getting too noticeable.”

He frowns. “Are they - ”

“Look, it's fine, alright? You don't need to worry about it.”

“I would work better if you told me – ” He stops.

You stare at each other, uneasily. He must have noticed it too, this sudden strange reversal of roles. You keeping him in the dark, him asking for information... Hell, he almost used your exact words.

But before you can reply the tense silence is broken by the sound of the Beegees. He keeps staring at you for a few seconds before he answers his phone.

“Hello?” he says. And then, in a voice so hesitant and scared it might as well belong to another person, “No, look, sorry, I can't talk to you. I'm – I'm sorry.”

He ends the call and the diffident expression on his face melts away.

“Who was that?” you ask.

He looks up. “Kitty Riley. The gutter journalist?”

“The redhead? Yeah, I remember. So, she’s the...” you sneer, “the  _chosen one_ , then?”

He hums in reply. “She'll be perfect. Competent enough to be believable, desperate enough to believe me. And not unattractive, either,” he adds with a glance at you.

“Is that supposed to rile me?”

“Did it?”

“No.” You drop into a chair. “Not the jealous type, me. Unlike other people.” And then, before he can answer, “Have you decided on a name yet?”

He spins around and grins broadly, that specific smile that means he’s thought of something he considers especially funny. “Rich Brook,” he declares with a flourish.

“Very clever,” you say dryly. “Don't you think people might realise?”

“Nah. People are stupid.”

“ _I_  noticed.”

“Ye-es.” He winks, cheesy as can be. “But repeated exposure to genius changes your perception.”

“You mean you rubbed off on me?” you say, leering.

“Something like that.” He turns around and stretches. “Right. Work to do. I'm going out.”

“Meeting her?”

“What?” He blinks. “Oh, no, I’m going to have her wait for a week or two. I want to make sure she's panting for it before I give it to her.”

“Ye-es, I get it, you can stop it now.” You glare at him and he smiles sweetly. He's lost his tie and jacket, but the shirt and the trousers are his. It's strange, seeing him go out like that. Usually he's either entirely in disguise or in a full suit. “So where are you off to, if not Riley?”

He gives you a sideways look. “Curious, are you? Recording studio.”

“Ah.” You lean forward. “The kids thing or the hospital thing?”

“Kids. The Storyteller.” He laughs delightedly. “Isn’t it  _beautiful_?”

“Suppose so. I still think you should have gone for Shakespeare, though. You’d have made a perfect Iago. Or a Richard the Third.”

He strikes a pose. “ _And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover to entertain these fair well-spoken days, I am determined to prove a villain and hate the idle pleasures of these days_.” He drops the pose and throws a wistful look outside. “In another life I could’ve been an actor, you know.”

“Terrifying audiences and sending critics into raptures, no doubt.” Jim performs almost constantly, everything he does is studied, calculated. The only real difference is that his audience is usually unaware. Still, there’s something in his face when he does this…

He gives you a look. “You get turned on by Shakespeare? You really are an Etonian.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

He smiles and goes to the mirror, messing up his hair.

It should be a relief, seeing him cheerful and relatively calm, but there’s something brittleabout it. Like it’s just a front, like he’s only seconds away from snapping again, which he’s done more than once the last few weeks. He’s been on edge constantly, and it’s really starting to wear you out.

“That’ll do,” he decides, with one last ruffle for his hair. He puts on a slightly worn jacket and slings a bag over his shoulder.

“Don't be too good,” you say.

“Hm?”

“You're supposed to be an out-of-work actor. If you're too good people might wonder why you're not hired. Although,” you grin, “it might just be because you're too much of a diva.”

He squeezes your shoulder as he passes. “I’ll have you know Rich is perfectly humble and accommodating.” His voice is already starting to change, going higher and lighter.

“Don’t you - ” you start, suddenly uneasy.

He pauses. “What?”

You turn around on your chair. He’s looking fairly patient, although it’s more condescending than anything else. “Don’t you think anyone will recognise you? You were on the news only five seconds ago.”

He shrugs. “It’s not like I’m going to be on stage, the only people seeing me will be the technicians in the studio and they know better than to go blabbing. Besides,” he grins, “People are like goldfish. A few days and they’ll have forgotten about it already, trust me.”

“It’s a risk.”

Another careless shrug. He turns to the door. “Living is a risk. I’ll be back in a few hours, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“That gives me a big fucking margin,” you shout after him.

The door closes. Your smile fades.

***

_You smell nothing but dust and blood and shit, battlefield-smell. Your hip hurts, everything hurts, but the hip is the worst, you can’t move. You turn your head, and a dark eye looks straight back at you, just the one, ‘cause the other side if his face looks more like something that belongs in a butcher’s than someone’s face. Teeth and bone and sinew, a mocking devil’s grin, a loud bang in the distance and you still can’t move and this is it this is how you die this is how it ends and you don’t want this not this don’t want -_

You jerk awake, kick off the sheets, adrenaline racing through your veins, fight or flight – except the only things you need to worry about are inside your own head and you can’t run from those, can you?

“Nightmares again?”

You look up, startled. Jim is sitting near the window, half-dressed, legs drawn up, a cigarette between his lips. He’s watching you with something that almost looks like worry.

No point in denying it, not while you’re sitting bolt upright in bed covered in cold sweat. “Yeah. Just the stress, probably.”

“Are you  _stressed_ , Seb?”

“Piss off.” You get out of bed and pad to the bathroom. A good splash of cold water helps washing away the clinging remains of the dream.

“Tell me.” He has followed you, cigarette discarded, leaning in the doorway.

“Nothing special. Just, you know, standard-issue war nightmares. Explosions, blood, injuries. Immobility.” You look down at the dark stone of the sink, avoiding his eye. He knows you're lying, but you hope he won't ask.

He doesn't need to know that it's his face you see now, blown to bits.

“Think you can get back to sleep?” he asks.

You glare at him. “What’s made you so concerned all of a sudden?”

“Your concentration suffers when you're sleep-deprived.” He smiles thinly. “Don't worry, all my concerns are entirely self-motivated.”

“Yeah.” You wipe a towel over your face. “It would help if there wasn't someone looming in the corner of the room. You need your sleep as well, you know.” His face goes blank. Ah, so you're not the only one here whose mind is being uncooperative.

You throw the towel down and turn to him. “Well, if neither of us is getting back to sleep anytime soon I can think of better ways to spend our time than sitting around brooding.”

Jim raises his eyebrows. “You woke up from a violent bloody nightmare less than two minutes ago, and already you're thinking of sex? Your libido really is a marvel, Sebastian.”

“Is that a yes or a no?”

He grins at you, you smirk back, and for a while it's almost as if things are back to normal. He shrugs his shirt off and tosses it in the hamper, and you go back to the bed.

You were thinking of sex, it's true, but you're not feeling it yet. You still haven’t shaken off the nightmare entirely, and you might be a bit  _warped_ when it comes to your tastes but even you don't consider a torn-apart corpse sexy. You glare at your cock, trying to get it to respond by sheer willpower. No sex in almost two weeks, this shouldn't be so difficult.

The light goes out in the bathroom and Jim comes to you. “Is someone having a little performance problem?” he asks, sounding distinctly amused. “Are you getting  _old_ , Seb?”

You take his hip and pull him on the bed. “Sod off, I’m only thirty-six. Just give me a minute and I'll be fine.”

He straddles you and you sit up, running your hand over his back.

There was a time, in those few first heated months, when the two of you fucked on-and-off for pretty much the entire night, filling the time inbetween with comfortable silences and tracing each other's scars and bones and skin, when you needed nothing more than a look to get hard, when he reacted to pretty much every casual touch by dragging you to the bedroom. You couldn't keep your hands of each other, then. The honeymoon period, and maybe sex is supposed to get boring when you've known someone for long enough but it hasn't, not with him. He never ceases to be a surprise, and in the four and a half years you've been fucking not a second has passed that you didn't want him.

But now, even with him heavy and warm in your lap and his mouth on yours and his hands on your sides, there's nothing.

He pulls back after a while and tilts your chin up. “Alright,” he says patiently. “What's wrong?”

“I don't know,” you say, frustrated. “I just don't - ”

“It's fine. Lie back.”

You scoot down and drop your head on the pillows, and he crouches over you. “What do you need, hm?” he asks, mouth on your throat. “Handcuffs? Rope? Want to be held down? Or...” He licks at your nipple, bites down. “Does it need to hurt?”

Still nothing. You run every wank-fantasy you remember through your head, random faceless men and women, Jim in various positions and conditions, but still your cock stays stubbornly flaccid, even when Jim closes his lips around the head and sucks softly. He sits up and frowns.

“Sorry,” you say uneasily, “I don't think it's going to - ”

“Shut up.” He sucks on his finger and rams it unceremoniously up your arse. You make a noise and rise off the bed, but it's more out of discomfort than pleasure.

Jim growls. “What is it, Sebastian? Rough or slow? Bottom or top?”

“I _don't know_.” God, this is embarrassing. And a bit painful too, have the two of you fallen so far out of sync that you can't even fuck without it turning into a sodding  _farce_?

He pulls his finger back out and considers you, head tilted to one side. You cover your face with your hand. “Can't we just - Look, I'll finish you off and then we can both go to sleep again, yeah?”

“No,” Jim says, absently wiping his finger on the sheets. “I'm getting to the bottom of this, even if it's - Ah.” He narrows his eyes, smiles. “Oh. Now I see.”

“What?”

“Shush.” He leans down and kisses you again, hand in your hair, chest pressed against yours. His other hand trails down your throat, over your shoulder. It's strange, too deliberate to be gentle but too careful to be anything else. It's also very nice.

He rolls onto his side and pulls you along, winding his legs with yours. You're touching pretty much everywhere, his fingers are carefully stroking the back of your neck, his other hand runs up and down your side, and finally your cock stirs.

“Atta boy,” Jim croons.

“How did you - ”

“Shush now, don't speak. You'll ruin it.” He pulls you in and kisses you, again and again, his thigh a solid warm pressure. He's everywhere, wrapped around you, and fuck knows how he knew but it's exactly what you want, what you _need_. His hand finds your arse and he pulls, aligning your hips. He rocks against you, tiny little movements that make you groan and gasp, works his hand inbetween, slides down.

“Please,” you choke.

He makes another shushing noise. “I've got you,” he whispers, and it should sound sappy and ridiculous but it doesn't. You take the back of his neck and let your head rest on his shoulder. His mouth moves to your throat, but his teeth only gently graze your skin, no biting for once.

Surprisingly it doesn't last that long until you come, shaking in his arms like a damn virgin. He hasn't yet, but instead of pushing you off or pulling you down he stays exactly where he is. You wrap your fingers around his cock, jerking him off at roughly the same pace he used for you. His eyes are closed, mouth a thin line now he doesn't have to concentrate on you anymore. You press kisses against his neck, his face, his shoulder, keep working your hand until he comes and sags against you.

His breathing slows until it’s at the same pace as yours. His hand comes up, fingers tracing the line of your shoulder and upper arm, lazy and sated, possessive.

“See?” he says after a while. “I still have you.”

And you have no idea if it's you or himself he's trying to convince.

***

“So,” he says, twirling in front of the mirror. “Whaddaya think?”

“I  _think_ Richard Brook has no sense of fashion.”

“Well, no, dear. He’s an  _actor_.” He does up a few buttons of his cardigan, cocks his head, opens them again.

You’re getting pretty familiar with Rich Brook. Jim has been wearing him a lot for the last three weeks, working on the alibi, developing his personality, his  _character_. As far as disguises go, it’s one of your least favourite. It comes too close in some areas - the acting, the accent - but it’s so fucking alien in other aspects that it leaves you with a strange sense of vertigo.

He meets your eye in the mirror. “Now, I need to look desperate. Scared. Do you think a black eye would be too much?”

You shrug. “Would Sherlock-the-evil-mastermind get violent?”

“He's attacked other people before,” he says thoughtfully. “Did you know? Well, defended himself, really. He made some nasty, undiplomatic observations – the way he often does, apparently - and someone took a swing at him. And our dear Sherlock hit back.”

Doesn’t surprise you. People like Sherlock Holmes practically  _ask_ to be punched, and a man who has no qualms about torturing people for information - if the rumours are to be believed - certainly wouldn’t hesitate to fight back.

“Of course, the first part can be left out in the story. Ye-es, I think violent might just work.” He cocks his head at his reflection. “Oh well, why not. It explains why Rich chooses today to meet in person. That last push he needed. Good thing I have you, it’s so  _bothersome_ to hit yourself.”

“You want me to hit you,” you say, voice carefully expressionless.

“It would hardly be the first time, now would it, Seb?” He turns around and tilts his head to you. “Go on then.”

“Right,” you say dubiously, looking him up and down. Angle, placement, you’ve done this a thousand times before, and yet all you can do is stand there and watch him and think _but I don’t want to hurt you_.

It’s pathetic.

Jim rolls his eyes. “Now what are you wait-”

You  _snap_  and backhand him across the room. He doubles over, half laughing and half coughing. “Gosh,” he wheezes, “needed to get that out of your system, did you?”

“Something like that,” you say, looking down at your hands. Where the fuck did that come from? You never lose control like that, violence is always just a tool, never a - an  _outburst_.

You shake yourself. “Anyway, you literally asked for it.”

“Yes I did.” He prods at his eye, already going red. “Oh, nicely done. Alright. Do I look pitiful enough?”

He turns around and blinks rapidly. His face  _changes_ , seems to grow softer, more normal. His mouth twitches and his eyes look wet, like he’s about to cry.

“You look like a baby seal,” you say gruffly.

His own smile flickers over his face, looking immensely out of place. “Well then, I’m off. Wish me luck.”

“Like you need it.”

You watch him leave. His shoulders hunch a little and his walk becomes clumsier, less fluid.

By the time you see him walk in the street below, you hardly recognise him.

***

 

The first time he comes back from Riley, he’s laughing. Because  _she swallowed it beautifully, darling, got a bit of a saviour complex there._

That’s the first time, and everything is nice and normal. But then there’s the second time, and the third, and the fourth and fifth… He visits her practically every other day, spending more time with her than with you, which – yeah, alright, it does make you sound jealous, but it isn’t _that_. It’s not like she’s competitionin any way that matters.

You just – you worry about him, and having him out of your sight for that long feels wrong.

Not that you tellhim that, obviously. When he gets back from Riley – around 11 AM, you suspect they went to breakfast together – all you give him is a quick _had fun, then_?

You do follow him into the bedroom, though. You shouldn’t; you’ve already got a backlog and the work keeps coming, but instead… Well, you just drift after Jim like a puppy hoping for a petting.

He takes up position in front of the mirror and tilts his head, studying his reflection.

“Well?” you ask. “Learned anything interesting? Useful?”

“Not really.” He starts scrubbing at his face with one of the makeup wipes he keeps around. “She wants me to move in with her.”

You laugh. “Really? God, that’s a bit _quick_ , isn’t it? She must be really desperate.”

He looks over his shoulder at you. His black eye has mostly faded by now. He covers it up when he’s out pretending - actors know their way around makeup, after all - but he hates the feel of it, wipes it off the second he gets home. It looks bare, yellowish now.

“She’s worried about my _safety_ , apparently,” he drawls.

“Really? Thinks Sherlock is going to strangle you in your sleep, does she?”

He shrugs. “I might, though. Move in.”

“ _What_?” you say sharply.

Another quick, slightly irritated look. “Not yet, obviously, too soon for that. But eventually, maybe.” He turns back to the mirror and runs a hand over his face, as if he’s trying to physically remove any last traces of Rich Brook. “But I _am_ going to spend the night there, quite soon.”

“Right.” You stare at the back of his head. You can’t remember him ever doing that. Well, alright, with Molly he did stay late once or twice, only to come back looking utterly murderous and dragging you into bed for a bout of extremely violent sex– even by your standards. As if he needed to compensate for all the niceness.

He laughs. “Really, Seb, I don’t think you could sound more despondent if you tried.” He spins on his heel and crosses to the bed, where you are sitting. “Do you really miss me that much?” he asks, taking your chin. There’s a mocking light in his eyes, and you really don’t feel like showing vulnerability now.

“You, not so much,” you say, sneering, “but the _sex_ …”

He laughs and lets go of you, leaving you with a strange sinking feeling.

Another lie. Of _course_ you fucking miss him, and besides, you don’t shag nearly as often as you used to anymore. He either snaps or laughs at you when you try to make a move, and you never were one to push when you aren’t wanted.

“But I’m here for the rest of the day,” he says. “So you can bask in my presence as much as you want.”

You snort. “Hardly. I’ve got work to do, remember?” _Work that you’re too lazy to take on,_ you almost add.

“Yes,” he says absently, already drifting off again. “Off you go then.”

You stand up, watch him stare at the mirror with an abstracted look on his face. There’s something distant about him, as if he’s not really here.

On impulse you grab his arm, spin him around and kiss him, hard. He flails in surprise before settling his hand on your arm, the other on your neck. He tries to take control but you don’t let him, forcing him to step backwards until his back hits the door and he breaks off.

“Easy,” he gasps. “Teeth marks would be hard to explain.”

“You’ll find a way,” you say, leaning into his neck.

He pulls at your hair, stopping you. “Seb. _No_. Get to work.”

Damn. You step back, hands raised. “Fine. Just, just promise you’ll – ”

“I’ll what?” he says, frowning.

You look away. “Nevermind. I’m in the study if you need me.”

He nods and steps back, turning his back to you. Dismissing you.

You sigh and get back to work.

***

A week or two later he does as he said and stays the night at Riley’s. It feels strange, sleeping in an empty bed again. It brings back all the bad memories from the last two times he was away.

And you could have coped without a problem if it had been just the once, but he keeps going back. You’ve got no clue what he’s up to exactly, either. Once again he’s gone tight-lipped, and this time you can barely summon up the energy to interrogate him. You’ve got better things to do, a criminal network to keep control of. It’s tiring, all that work without Jim’s support, but honestly you’re glad to have something to do. It’s much better than just waiting around until he gets back.

Your hands tighten on the wheel. It’s all very  _logical_ and  _businesslike_ , but you can’t help the way you feel. Something like resentment growing with every night he’s away, every case file he throws casually in your direction.

You pull up in front of the flat and take a deep breath, try to fight down your anger. You’re being childish. He needs you, doesn’t he? Even if he doesn’t say it, or asks for it. He  _needs_ you, and that means you’ll do exactly as he says.

***

“Where have you been?” he asks as you step inside.

You leer at him. “Out. Suspicious little bastard, aren’t you?”

“ _Sebastian_ ,” he says pointedly.

“Russians.” You shrug off your holster and hang it up. “A – what do you call it, border dispute? Jurisdiction struggle. I've set them straight.”

“Have you.”

“ _Yes_. Alright? I've got a handle on it.” You lean against the wall and squint at him. He’s tense, twitchy, pacing up and down, full of nervous energy.

“Are you alright?” you ask, straight to the point. “You look a little rough around the edges.”

He gives you one of his fixed searing looks. “Bedroom.”

You salute lazily and start unbuttoning your shirt.

***

It goes wrong.

***

Your wrists are bleeding. Nothing serious, just a slow trickle, but it's strangely hypnotising.

Jim presses an antiseptic wipe against another wound. It stings, a bit, but the pain doesn’t even properly register. You take a sip from your water bottle. Your hands are still shaking. You’ve broken a nail. No, two, another few drops of blood, raw pink skin showing, as if you’ve been broken open.

He lost control.

This is why ordinary people have safewords, but Jim never needed them, he always just  _knew_. And now...

But even if you’d had some way to call the alarm, he would have ignored it, that's how far gone he was.

You close your eyes. The worst thing isn't the pain, or the horror or the helplessness or whatever the fuck it is you're supposed to feel; no, the worst was the look in his eyes afterwards.

And you don't know how to make this right again.

He's bent over you, carefully disinfecting and bandaging. You feel bile rise to your throat. “What happened?” you ask, but you can hardly get the words out, your voice is hoarse. You can barely swallow.

He stays stubbornly silent, mouth thin.

“Jim. Talk to me, ‘cause I'm – ”

“You trust me?” he asks sharply.

“Yes, of course I do, but now I'm wondering if that's the right thing to do.”

He could have killed you, and it's a truth that's hanging between you, that neither of you wants to say out loud.

“Not that I have a choice,” you add, and he throws the bottle down and jumps up from the bed in one aggressive movement. He starts pacing, everything about him screaming  _volatile_.

“You  _always_ have a choice,” he snaps, “and maybe now would be a good time to make it. The  _sensible_ one.”

“D'you want me to leave? Is that it, is this your pathetic attempt to drive me away?” You stand up and he whirls, glaring at you.

“God knows  _why_ you're staying, Sebastian. There are a lot more easier ways to fulfil your death wish than this.”

“ _Fuck_ you. I'm not going anywhere, you prick, if you want me gone you'll – you'll have to – ” You gasp for air and your legs give out. Jim is there in an instant, catching your shoulders and breaking your fall. He lowers you carefully to the floor, kneeling down next to you. You lean heavily against him, dizzy with blood loss and pain and whatever neurotransmitters are swimming in your bloodstream right now.

“It isn't safe,” he mutters.

“I know that, I've always known that. And...”  You take a deep breath. “Better me than you.”

“A second later and you could have died.”

“I  _don't care_.”

He takes your neck and pulls you hard against him, more a chokehold than a hug. “You're an idiot,” he says flatly. “A stupid stubborn reckless idiot.”

“I don't care,” you say again. Your vision is starting to swim but it doesn't matter. “I don't care, as long as, as I...”

He carefully disentangles himself from you. You lean against the side of the bed, watching as he reaches for the fallen bottle, lifts your hand. “I need to leave tonight,” he says. He turns your hand, wipes at the torn and bleeding nailbeds. “I'll hurry, come back as soon as I can.”

Easy enough to read that as an apology of some sort, except you suspect it’s got more to do with his sense of property. Taking care of what he owns. Your eyes fall closed.

He taps you sharply on the cheek and tips your head up, eyes flicking between yours. “Don't drift off.”

“Don't think I'm concussed,” you say. Everything is still blurry around the edges, true, but that's mostly it.

“You’re not going to sleep until I’ve made sure. No taking chances.” He bows his head, goes through the bandages again.

“You break it, you bought it,” you mutter.

He doesn’t reply.

***

_You turn your head, blood slick against your cheek, obscuring your vision, but you can still make out that face, that one dark eye, the empty socket beside it, the shattered bone shining through. Brain lying open and bare for everyone to see, and it looks ordinary, just meat, like it’s  –_

Your eyes snap open. Moonlight is bathing the room in strange bluish light – forgot to close the curtains again – and the room is silent. You reach out to the other side of the bed, looking for reassurance, only for your fingers to close on empty sheets. You're the only one there.

Nightmares again. No amount of sex or medication is going to cure that, you’re stuck with them. The same images and feelings over and over again: the smell of blood, Jim’s face blown apart, and that sickening feeling of not being able to move even though there’s something horrible about to happen, no escape, no way to avoid it.

And of course what happened today – or yesterday, it's four AM already – isn't going to help matters there. You raise your hand. Even in this gloom you can see the dried blood on your bandages.

Every solitary breath feels like the stab of a knife. You’ve never minded being alone, enjoy it even, but right now the emptiness of the flat feels oppressive. More than oppressive. You sit up, wrap your arms around your drawn-up legs, lean your forehead against your knee. Try to regulate your breathing because you're skirting close to a panic attack here, and  _you need him_ and he isn't here and it hurts in a way that's got nothing to do with spilled blood and torn flesh.

There's a quiet creak and a gust of cool air and your head swings up. The door opening and closing,  _finally_ he's here. You hear the rustle of clothing as he undresses, and then the bed dips and he pulls at the sheets.

“You took your time,” you say, well aware that it makes you sound like a resentful wife.

“Lie down, you need your sleep,” he says softly.

“Where were you?” you can’t resist asking.

“Go to  _sleep_ , Sebastian,” he says, and for a moment his voice sounds warmer than it has in a long time.

You fall back onto the pillows and roll onto your side. Back to blood and horror and that fucking feeling of paralysis.

The mattress shifts, and his hand touches your hip. “What?” you growl.

“Just go to sleep,” he says again, sounding about as tired as you feel. And then, after a few deep slow breaths, “I'll still be here in the morning.”

He withdraws his hand. You stare into the darkness. “Thanks,” you say after a while.

No answer.

***

You wake up to the sounds of domesticity. The tinkle of cutlery, water boiling, cupboards opening and closing. You try sitting up and your vision swims for a while, but you manage it eventually.

Jim comes in after a few moments carrying a tray. He puts it on the sheets on his side and sits on the bed next to it, legs crossed. You look at the tray, filled with breakfast, and at him, his face carefully unreadable.

“Is this the part where you tearfully assure me you still love me and that it won't happen again?” you ask, voice still wrecked.

“It  _won't_ happen again,” he says coldly.

“Yeah? Sure about that?”

He raises an eyebrow, face still expressionless.

“Cause I’m not,” you continue. “I don't know what the  _fuck_ 's going on with you anymore.”

“The less you know, the better, in this case.”

“What, you're trying to protect me or something?” You gesture at yourself. “Look how well that turned out.”

He turns his head, looking outside. No reply.

You sigh. “Look, it's fine, don't worry about it. I've had worse.”

“Don't pretend you're unaffected.” He gives you a sideways look. “You're not that good an actor.”

And he's right, isn't he? You feel like your feet have been swept from under you. Trust is all you have left, and it used to be rock-solid but now the first break has appeared. Like a crack in the ice, and you're not eager to find out what lurks beneath.

“I meant it, you know,” he says. “About choices. You always could – ” He stops himself, looks outside again. “The decision has always been yours.”

“I'm aware of that. Look at me.”

He does, much to your surprise. Hard to tell who's feeling more unnerved right now.

“I'm not going anywhere,” you say slowly. “Maybe it's time for you to start trusting me as well.”

He slides off the bed and puts his hand on your nape. You close your eyes, and he leans in and presses a kiss against your forehead.

You look up at him. “Where are you going?”

“I don't need to leave until tomorrow afternoon. I'm...” He smiles thinly. “I'm not going anywhere.”

You sigh, deeply. “Good.”

***

The day after you have a meeting. You can see their eyes go over your bandaged wrists, your split lip and developing black eye and scratches and bruises and bitemarks on your throat. Your limp. Most of them could be explained away as injuries from a fight, but only madmen try to bite someone’s neck.

 _Go on_ , you think viciously,  _say something_.

They don't. But you can see another rumour creating itself.

***

Things have never been equal between Jim and you. You knew that, it was part of the deal, even if was never said in so many words. He’s the one in charge and you just follow, but you've never felt it quite as acutely as now.

And… Well, you don’t need to be a fucking shrink to know that what you have with him isn’t entirely healthy. Giving yourself to another person like that - it only has a chance of working if you trust said person completely. And you have, always, even when he was at his darkest, his most insane.

You rub at your wrist. The wounds have mostly healed but they'll scar, a few thin white lines, like a bracelet.

The funny thing is that even now you don't distrust him. Not really. If he'd show up now and hand you the handcuffs you wouldn't even hesitate, would let him do whatever he wants.

 _And what if he kills you?_ a treacherous little voice asks at the back of your mind.

 _Then I’m dead_. Death never frightened you anyway.

You look up and your eyes fall to the diagram on the wall, your coded name glaring back at you. You go over and trace your finger over the meandering line.

Your name is a hub of connectivity, lines surrounding it and going to almost every other name. All except one part in the middle that's completely separated. No links at all between you and that, so no prizes for guessing which one that’s supposed to be.

He doesn't let you anywhere near the Rich Brook thing. Not even to go and threaten the people who have to give references, not even to do the paperwork.

You trace the line further. As the diagram progresses, other lines fall away or curl back on themselves, but your line continues steadily. Until you're at what you think is the endpoint, and there your name is. All alone. There's something odd about the writing, as if Jim pressed the marker too deep into the wallpaper. Anger? Why was he angry?

The door opens. “Ah, you’re here,” Jim says from behind you.

“Evidently.” You don’t turn around. You can hear his footsteps on the carpet, crossing the room.

“I’m not staying, I’m just here to pick up some clothes.”

“Thought as much.”

He pauses and doubles back, frowning at you. “What’s the matter with you?”

You laugh. “ _You_ are asking  _me_ that?”

He’s still frowning. “Yes, why?”

“Pot, kettle.”

He shakes his head and goes back to the bedroom. He hasn’t worn his own clothes in several weeks now. Permanently in disguise, and it feels  _wrong_ , to see him like that for so long. Not that you see him that much, he’s hardly at home anymore.

You leave the diagram for what it is and go back to your research. Ricoletti’s successor has gone and got himself killed, which of course sets off a whole new power struggle. You need to find the right candidate to come out on top. Someone you’ve got dirt on, although honestly, you’ve got dirt on everyone.

Jim comes back out of the bedroom, jacket on, bag slung over his shoulder. “Leaving again,” he says.

“Fine,” you say, not looking up.

He stops, in the middle of the room. You look around at him. “What?”

“Not going to ask when I get back? Where I’m going?” he asks, as if he  _wants_ you to be the nagging housewife.

You shrug. “I don't know, will I get an answer this time?”

He purses his lips and looks you up and down, surprised. He probably expected you to start whining. “I'll see you on Wednesday,” he says at last.

It's Monday. Another two nights on your own. “Fine,” you say again.

He frowns, opens his mouth as if to say something, but shakes his head and leaves.

***

It isn't the absences. Not really.

It isn't even the silence, or the sudden notable lack of sex, or the way he refuses to answer your occasional questions. ‘Cause alright, you miss all that, especially the sex, but he's had bad times before and you always got through them.

But it's the way he looks at you. Or rather, doesn't look at you. It used to be easy, this, the two of you.  You could have entire conversations with him in nothing more than raised eyebrows and smiles.  _Attuned_ , that was the word, and it felt safe and comfortable and like  _home_.

And now, the few times the both of you are home at the same time, it’s... awkward. The air full of unspoken things and resentment and anger and a fuckload of confusion on your part. Dancing around each other, keeping a distance. Like strangers, only it’s worse than that. You used to know him like you knew your heartbeat, and losing that...

You catch your eye in the lift’s mirror and give your reflection a tired smile. No point in self-pity.

Your phone rings, Jim, speak of the devil. “Yeah?”

“Where are you?” he asks curtly.

“Home.”

“No you’re not.” It comes out too quickly, accusing.

“I’m on my way up, calm down.”

He ends the call without another word, leaving you staring at your phone. Several days of being ignored and now  _this_ , why the fuck can’t he make up his mind for once?

You get out at the top floor and open the door. Jim is sitting at the table, bent over his paperwork, wearing an old t-shirt of yours.

And, pathetic though it is, just _seeing_ him there is enough to stop you in your tracks for a moment. No matter how deeply intensely pissed-off you are, you simply can’t help the way you feel when he’s near. The sight of him, the mere fucking  _presence_. It’s enough to leave you reeling, just a bit.

Not that it will last, this relief.

You close the door, but he doesn’t react. “Remembered where you live, did you?” you say. You put your gun down on the kitchen counter with a loud clunk.

He doesn't look up. “Don't be grumpy, Seb, this isn't a good time.”

“This is the  _only_ time, I haven't seen you in four days.”

He throws you a sardonic look as you pass him on your way to the bathroom. Once the blood is cleaned off your hands you go back to living room, watching him. He leans forward and folds his hands, shoulders hunched. There's something about it that bothers you. It makes him look odd, insecure, like -

Ah. That particular mannerism isn’t one of Jim’s. It’s Richard Brook, his disguise still clinging to him, like a leech, dug in and refusing to let go.

“The least you could do is leave  _him_  behind when you're here,” you say sourly.

He frowns at you in honest confusion, another expression that looks  _wrong_  on his face, and then he jerks his head, as if he's trying to dislodge something.

You roll your eyes. ”Get your shit together, will you?”

He narrows his eyes. “ _What_ did you say?” he asks, voice going high. It means danger, means he’s seconds away from psychotic rage but Jesus fucking  _Christ_ you don’t care.

“You heard me.” You push off the wall and take a step closer. “Are you losing track of who you are already? Wait, maybe you really did forget you lived here, is that it?”

“Maybe,” he says, with a nasty twisted smile, “I just don't want to come home to a whiny conceited idiot panting all over me.”

“ _Maybe_  if you started acting less like a deranged lunatic I wouldn't have anything to whine about.”

“Little late to start complaining now, darling,” he drawls, and you’re skirting the edge of something here but fuck him, you’re not backing down.

“You're still pretending this isn't different?” you ask, taking another step closer. “Or do you genuinely not see that? Can't be that, can it, because – ”

He stands up and the chair clatters to the floor. “You have some - ”

“ _\- because_ a fucking genius like you can't actually be that stupid.”

He strides around the table to you. “Oh dear, trying to analyse me?” He tuts, but his eyes are burning and the sarcasm could cut veins. “I should stick to the guns and the sex if I were you, Sebastian, because you're like a toddler blundering into a - ”

“Six fucking  _years_ , you don't get to treat me like a brainless lackey anymore.”

Something  _breaks_. Jim loses the sneer and slams you into the wall, face ugly and twisted in fury. You throw up your arms in mock-surrender and laugh. “Are you trying to frighten me, here?”

“ _I can treat you however I like,_ ”he shouts in your face. “You're  _nothing_  compared to me. An insect, a  _worm_ , I should have trampled you when I - ”

“But you didn't, did you?” You sneer at him. “Regretting your decision? But you don't  _do regret_ , do you, Jim?”

“ _Shut up_ ,” he yells, voice breaking. He bangs you against the wall and the back of your head hits the plaster, hard enough to hurt. “ _I'm_  the one who’s in control here, don't ever fucking forget that!”

“Yeah? Well, I've seen you with the lights out,  _darling,_ and we both know you're not quite as in control of yourself as you like to pretend.”

He reels back as if you've hit him.

You breathe in, shaking, feeling like you’re standing on the edge of a precipice. Your heart is racing, beating far too loudly.

You’ve never had shouting matches with him before. If one of you starts to rage or yell, the other goes cool and controlled, that's how it always was, perfectly in balance.

And now this.

He’s still staring at you, breathing heavily. He's not going to take the first step, that's pretty fucking obvious. Just, swallow your pride, apologise, let him fume for a while and maybe that will -

And then the little bastard snatches your gun from the table and points it at you and you see red. Your training takes over, you lunge, and he’s disarmed in two seconds flat, your fingers against the tendons in his wrist forcing him to drop the gun. You spin him around, one hand still around his wrist and the other on his throat, warm and alive and  _fragile_.

“ _Do it_ ,” he spits.

You can feel his heart racing, and for one searing mad moment you actually could. Press down, snap his head around, break his neck.

And then the moment passes. You push him off. He stumbles a little, and then he strides straight to the bedroom, not looking back.

You go to the window and sink down, back against the glass. Bury your face in your hands.

Absurdly, it reminds you of your parents. Not the violence and the weapons, obviously, but what comes before and after. The unspoken recriminations, the cold silences, the way their mouths would twist whenever their eyes met. It was pretty grim for an eight-year old to witness, but it's nothing compared to what it feels like when you're in the middle of it yourself. The guilt, the anger, the fear. The l–

Well.

You press your hands into your eye sockets, feeling tired to your  _bones_. Jesus, when did everything turn to _shit_ like this?

But that’s how it is and there’s no sense whining about it.

You get up again and go to the bedroom. Jim is sitting on the bed, head in his hands, but at least the trembling has stopped. You sit down on the floor and lean your head against his knee. After a while his hand falls onto your neck.

“You need to stop doing this, Sebastian,” he says, voice expressionless.

“Funny, I was just about to say the same.”

He stands up, hand leaving your neck, and you close your eyes, weary beyond belief. “Don't,” you say tiredly.

He looks down at you. In this light the dark circles under his eyes are incredibly noticeable. “Do you expect me to apologise?”

“No. I just - this isn’t fucking  _easy_ for me, you know.”

He doesn’t say anything else, just starts pacing. You close your eyes, lean your head back against the bed. He’s  _here_. Focus on that, leave all the rest for what it is. He’s here and he’s safe and that’s all that matters.

After a while he starts muttering to himself. You open your eyes. He’s ticking off things on his fingers, eyes focused on something invisible. Lost inside his own head again.

“Fairytales,” he says abruptly, god knows where that came from. “That's what all of this is. Just a tale.” He pulls one his faces, the ugly-angry-mocking one. “And we all know how  _those_  end.”

The words jog an old memory, of an English tutor who didn't have a very firm grasp on child psychology and thought it was a good idea to tell a seven-year old the unedited versions.

“Yeah?” you say, staring at him. “In the oldest stories, the bad guys  _win._ ”

This does get his attention. He spins around and walks to you, falls to his knees between your legs. You grasp his shoulders, and he reaches out and brushes his fingers over your face, like blind people do.

Like he's not sure you're real.

***

He leaves again before dusk, and stays away for the entire night. He gets back just as you’re getting ready to leave for Glasgow – yet another project needing personal supervision – and frankly it’s a relief to be away from the decaying flat for a bit. Jim gives your bag one strange look and then he claps you lightly on the shoulder, says _take care_ in a voice that doesn’t entirely sound like his own.

And that’s the pattern for the next few weeks. He’s away doing whatever the fuck it is he’s doing, and you go from job to job or stay in London to keep an eye on the ever-evolving web.

And you keep missing each other. You'll come inside and his presence will still hang in the air, a pile of folders that's been moved, a lingering smell. Rumpled bedsheets. You're not sure if he's avoiding you on purpose or not; either is equally probable, really.

You don't mind the work, it's coming home that's getting to you. It's come to the point that every time you have to leave London, you take the opportunity to stay somewhere else, even just for one night.

You just can't face the reminder.

***

It's snowing when you return to London. It's gorgeous in the country, turning the fields and houses into something straight out of a Brueghel painting, but in the city... Trust London to take nature's beauty and transform it into something twisted and ugly, grey sludge and mud instead of a glittering white blanket. It's turning the pavements slick and everywhere you look people are cursing and sliding on the wet stone. The traffic is pretty much fucked, as is public transport, and you arrive in Knightsbridge three hours later than you expected. Not that you mind that much, apart from _warmth_ there isn’t much waiting for you inside.

You take the stairs in an attempt to get life back into your frozen limbs and stamp your feet hard to get rid of the slush before getting in. No getting stains on the floor, even in the state he’s in now Jim would -

You stop, hand on the doorknob.

Jim is standing in the living room, staring at you with huge dark eyes, brought to a halt mid-stride.

There's maybe a second of mutual heated staring and then he's on you, forcing you back against the wall. His fingers feel like fire against your ice cold skin, and he's kissing you like he's – like the lack of contact is suffocating him. You're almost too stunned, too fucking  _grateful_  to react at first, and then he swings around so he's the one against the wall. You tear frantically at his shirt, and he pulls his belt off in one vicious movement, throws it across the room.

It’s been far,  _far_ too long since the last time you’ve had sex.

You grab a handful of shirt and try to pull him to the bedroom, but he pulls back, closing his hand around your wrist and yanking you hard against him.

“Here?” you ask against his jaw.

“Yes.” He kicks off his trousers as if they've done him some personal injury and claws at your shoulders.

“Fine, but - ”

He wraps a leg around your waist so you keep your mouth shut and hoist him up – good thing you kept up the weightlifting. You slide a hand up from his thigh to his arse and your fingers come away slick. “When did you - ”

“Shut. Up,” he growls, punctuating the words with his nails. He zips your jeans open, you adjust your hold and then you slide in and -  _fuck_.

You lean forward and he presses his nose against your neck and you don't move, hands supporting his thighs and his fingers splayed against your back, his breath warm against your neck, his elbow digging in uncomfortably against your collarbone and his hand twining in your hair -

\- and you don't move.

There are cars driving by outside, a radio fading in and out. You can smell perfume on his shirt, and cheap cigarettes, but underneath that it's sweat and hair and skin, achingly familiar. The cold is finally starting to leave, chased away by his body heat. You squeeze your eyes shut, press your cheek against his, and still you can't bring yourself to move. As if it would break the illusion, as if you're afraid of waking up, because this doesn't feel  _real_.

The sound of a car door banging shut snaps you out of it. You pull your head back, look at him. His pupils are huge, mouth red and wet. He looks  _drugged_.

Very slowly you let go of his left thigh and raise your hand. His leg tightens around your waist to the point of pain in an effort not to slide down. You reach up and trace his face with a finger, temple to cheekbone to chin.

And then you close your fingers around his throat and squeeze, cutting off his air supply. His eyes go wide.

“Do you know,” you say, voice shaking with barely restrained anger, “how  _long_ you’ve been gone?”

He gasps for air. You don’t loosen your grip. He throws his head to the side, trying to escape your hold.

“Eleven days,” you hiss. “And not  _one fucking word_.” His leg starts to slide down so you let go of him and put your hand back under his thigh. He takes a deep shaking breath, you thrust forward and his eyes roll back.

His fingers dig into your shoulders, urging you on. As far as positions go it’s not the most ideal, but you’re strong enough and  _god_ is he eager, moving and rocking as much as he can. Your fingers dig into the flesh of his lower back - he’s going to be smattered with fingerprint-shaped bruises afterwards, and isn’t  _that_  a satisfying thought.

You don't last that long, not with the way he's scratching at your shoulders and biting at your throat. It's been entirely too long since you had him like this and you come with a choked-off curse, feeling something close to a fucking religious experience, sheer bright-edged triumphant _joy_.

You almost lose your grip and drop him. He hasn't come yet, and it's very tempting to just step back, give the bastard a taste of his own fucking medicine.

His hand strokes your hair and he makes a soft, almost pleading noise. Your eyes fall closed.

Even you are not that cruel.

You adjust your footing, leaning most of his weight against the wall, and let go of him again. You reach down and close your fingers around him and he spasms in your arms. You take in every twitch, every sigh and moan, the way his eyes squeeze shut when he comes, his head thrown back, mouth open. Every bit as overwhelmed as you were.

He uncrosses his legs and lowers them, still trembling. You pull out and carefully drop him to the ground. He's looking down, avoiding your eye almost as if he's ashamed. Which would be a first: you’ve never known Jim to be ashamed or embarrassed about _anything_.

He slides down to sit on the floor and you follow his example. You lean your head back against the wall and close your eyes, utterly disgusted with yourself.

There used to be a time when you despised addicts. Weak, selfish, stupid, brought their misery on themselves. You still think that, to be honest, but now at least you understand. How fucking desperate you can become for a fix, the immense overwhelming relief when you finally get it. The craving creeping back into your veins almost immediately, because it's never enough, you're never truly satisfied.

Your hands are even shaking. Christ, you're pathetic.

And it sure as hell isn’t mutual, Jim’s not nearly as desperate for you as for him, is he? This probably isn’t anything more than a quick casual shag for him, a bit of fun on the side.

“Enjoyed it, then?” you ask him. It comes out strangely flat.

“I did,” he says. His voice sounds rough, but it's miles away from Brook's simpering lisp. “Nothing like a good fuck to ground you.”

Like you suspected. You’re just stress-relief to him, an easy way to flush Brook from his system. Means to an end.

You look at your hands, still warm from his skin. “So, do you want an update on the work?”

“Not really.” You can see him looking at you from the corner of your eye. “I'm sure you're on top of it all. Aren't you?”

And the thing is, you are. Your methods might be a bit more hands-on than Jim's but fuck that, it works. Doesn't matter that you don't know every single last detail the way he does, you've got London by the balls and everyone knows it.

“Suppose I am,” you say tiredly.

You can feel him looking at you. Gauging, probably, trying to see if you’re going to break, if you can keep this up. A bit like worry, only it isn’t so much about you as about him and his fucking _project_ , is it?

“You were late,” he says eventually, leaning his head back and closing his eyes.

“Weather. Were you waiting for me?”

He puts a hand on your knee and pushes himself upright, not answering.

“Leaving already?” you ask, not looking at him. “Got what you needed and now you can bugger off?”

He sighs. “I've got to keep my cover, Sebastian. I really shouldn't have to explain this to you.”

“Yeah? Well, I'm getting really fucking tired of all this.”

He bends down and tilts your jaw up, runs his thumb over your split lip. “Don't do anything stupid, love.”

You pull away and get up.

***

Not surprisingly the moments just before you go to sleep are the hardest to bear. You get through the mornings on autopilot and after that it’s just a matter of keeping busy, not giving your mind a chance to drift off. But it’s like all the thoughts you suppress during the day come back with double force when you’re in bed and close your eyes. And that combined with the nightmares...

Well. You haven’t been getting that much sleep lately.

Your phone beeps. Jim, of course, because who the fuck else would text you these days? It’s tempting to just ignore it, ‘cause the only thing worse than no messages are the dry, business-like ones, the ones that make you feel like the fucking PA again. But you’re not a sulking child, so you suck it up and press the button.

 _i dont know why but i think i can trust you_ , the message says. You run your thumb over the screen, unsure what to make of it. He doesn’t do this sort of confessions, not unless -

Your phone beeps again, another message.

_ignore last text – not meant for you_

You stare at the innocent little letters, vision going blurry, and then you throw your phone with all your strength against the wall, shattering it. You stalk to the wardrobe and pull out a suitcase.

Not the suits, ‘cause those are his, his tailor, his tastes, his fucking money. He paid for all the other clothes too but at least the jeans feel more like they belong to you.

Same with the guns, only your own Beretta and Glock. The fucking Rolex meets the same fate as the phone. As for the rest, a toothbrush and a razor is all you need. You can leave right now, there are at least half a dozen mercenary companies that would take you in in a heartbeat, you can be out of the UK today if you want.

If you want.

You stare down at the suitcase, the measly pile of clothes.

 _The decision has always been yours_.

You could have left at any point in the last six years, but you didn’t. And what the fuck does it say about you that you consciously  _choose_ this?

You collapse onto the bed, head in your hands. You're stuck, you can't leave but you can't stay either, not like this, and you've always known you wouldn't reach forty and all you want is for this to be over, even it means -

But no. You're not that desperate, not yet. And besides, you promised.

You unpack again and piece your phone back together. The Rolex is a total loss, though. But chances are he won't even notice, living in his head as much as he is right now.

 _I can't do this_ , you type, finger hovering over the send button.

In the end, you delete it.

***

The next time you come home, there's a shiny new watch waiting for you on the table.

You don't know what to think.

***

“Are you fucking her?”

It's mid-December and Jim has graced you with his presence after a radio silence of ten days. But the thrill of seeing him in the flesh again isn't enough to outweigh the rest, nowhere fucking  _near_.

“I thought you said you weren't the jealous type,” he says, raising an eyebrow at you.

You look back, unfazed. “I'm not  _jealous_ , I'm  _curious_. You know,  _what depths will he stoop to_?”

He shrugs. “It's hardly a chore.”

“So you are. Fucking her.”

He flashes his teeth at you. “Still pretending you don't care, Seb?”

He's still dressed as Richard Brook, jeans and a cardigan, but that cruel, unflinching, pitiless superiority in his voice is pure Moriarty.

You curl your lip. “Is she any good, then?”

“Oh, don't worry, you're still the best fuck I've ever had.” He sighs and stretches, shirt riding up and revealing a pale strip of stomach. “Are you reassured now?” His voice takes on a mocking childish lilt. “Daddy still lo-”

“Don't,” you snap.

He raises his eyebrows at you. “Ooh, touchy, aren't we?”

“Fuck off.” You dig into your pockets. “This isn’t about me. You're coming apart,” you say, lighting a cigarette. “You see that, don't you? Or are you still in cloud-cuckoo land?”

“I've killed men for less,” he growls.

You give him a joyless smile. “And we both know that  _that's_ not going to scare me away, Jim.” He glares at you and you turn away, too tired to deal with this.

It’s a catch-22, really. When he’s gone all you want is for him to come back, be near, but when he actually _is_ back… You hardly recognise him anymore, it's like what little humanity he had to start with is peeling away, day by day.

“When is this going to end?” you ask, not really expecting an answer.

“When Sherlock Holmes  _ends_.”

“And what about you?” You force yourself to look at him. “How does this end for you?”

He gives you a pitying, exasperated look. “You really should know that already.”

You can't think of anything else to say. Jim drops into the armchair, one leg dangling over the armrest. “What about that diplomat's kids? Is that arranged?” he asks.

“Our man's ready, it's just a matter of waiting until the end of term.” You give a short bark of laughter. “ _Our_ man. Christ, why do I even bother?”

He looks at you impassively. “You're not going to break down, are you? Because that would be inconvenient right now.”

“I won't. You know me,  _James_ , loyal to the end.”

He sighs. “Oh, Sebastian. It'll only be another few weeks and then it'll all be over.”

It’ll all be over. The words echo in your head, like a fucking death knell,  _it’ll all be over_.

You run a hand through your hair, turn on him. He’s watching you impassively, no emotion showing whatsoever. You might as well be a stranger to him.

But he isn’t to _you_.

“Stay here tonight,” you say. “You owe me that much. One night.”

He slides out of his chair and stretches. “Can't,” he says idly, “I promised Kitty I'd be home with her. Maybe tomorrow. I'd need to find a good excuse, though.”

“And I'm not worth the bother of thinking up an excuse?” It’s out before you can stop yourself.  _Tell me you need me_. It’s pathetic, grasping, you  _hate_ what he’s turned you into.

He frowns. “I honestly don't know what's gotten into you lately, you're getting so bothersome. I need to go, I told her I was only going to the shops, no sense in making her worried.”

You laugh again, an ugly mocking parody of a laugh. Sounds a bit like his.

Jim crosses his arms. “Can I rely on you to run things properly or are you going to collapse in a sobbing heap the minute I step through the door?”

You stand up and go to the window, turning your back to him again. For all that you've been missing him like breathing, you just can't bear to look at him right now.

“Sebastian. Answer me.”

“You can rely on me,” you say softly.

For a moment you can hear nothing but his slow breathing. Then there are footsteps and the sound of the door closing.

You put your hand flat on the cold glass, fingers splayed. It's dark already, longest night of the year not that far away. Would Jim realise? Probably, he does love his symbolism.

Your phone rings. You shake off the gloominess and you get back to work. Business doesn’t stop just because you’re having  _relationship troubles_ , after all.

***

“One of the assassins is dead,” your sniper says on the phone.

You wanted it to be you, to lay in wait around Baker Street, make sure no one got close. Jim forbade it, one of the very few direct orders of the last months. No personal involvement.

“Which one?” you say impatiently.

“The Albanian. I got him before he could do anything.”

“I should fucking well think so,” you snarl. The man on the other end of the line goes quiet, breathing hard. “You know what to do.”

You end the call and type a message to Jim,  _it’s starting_. Nothing more but he’ll know what it means.

Raise the curtain. Final act.

You feel sick.

***

Riley lives less than thirty minutes’ drive away, and at this time of night most of the streets are blessedly empty. You park two streets away, amble casually to the back of her house, and take up position just beneath the window. You light up and try to think of nothing, try to reach that focused-but-relaxed state of mind you need whenever you’re lying in wait. But your tricks are failing you this time, and you keep slipping out of it, back into worry. Your stomach clenches.

 _Come pick me up_ , he said.  _I’ll need back-up_.

About an hour later you can hear voices, a woman’s, someone who’s probably Holmes, and then Jim’s voice, higher than usual, still pretending.

There’s a shout and then Jim comes falling out of the window. He lands hard, almost trips. You catch him just in time, and the weight of him against you comes as a shock after all those weeks of absence. He’s breathing hard, fingers digging into your upper arms, and when he looks up at you his eyes are glittering and his face is flushed.

He pulls away and you lead him to the car. You drive him to a safehouse in silence – too dangerous to go home right now, not in this delicate phase of the plan – and follow him inside, all without saying a word. You sit down on the concrete floor and watch him change his clothes.

The first hour or two he doesn't say anything, just stares at the wall. You wait, cold seeping into your bones.

And then he starts talking.

***

“It isn’t the fall that’s the problem, you see, it’s the crash, it’s the ground – ” He turns on his heel, paces the room again. “No way of stopping it of - of breaking it, you just just… just gotta have fun before the drop.”

Another spin, pacing nervously. His eyes are wild and he’s twitching like mad; he’s never looked more deranged. “And it always comes back to this, doesn’t it, ending roll credits and no one ever cares what happens after.” He raises his hands, scrubs at his hair. “After, always after, but I did, ‘cause it never ever _stops_ does it? It keeps going on and on and on and on - ” like he’s a record, stuck. “And nobody ever  _sees_ , do they? Just blind, like – turning their heads away and not looking because they’re they’re – they’re – ”

He slams his palms hard against the wall and you can’t stay back anymore. You stand up, pull his hands to you and he falls against you, shaking. “I’m just so tired,” he says, eyes closed. “Tired. Why can’t it just  _stop_ , hm? Why can’t it just…” His fingers dig into your arm, painfully hard.

“Jim.” You touch his shoulder but he pulls away again, starts pacing again, muttering on.

“Do you think he will he would he could- he has to, if not him then who but he fell for it, fell – ”

You sink back onto the floor and watch him rail.

***

The text comes just after dawn. He laughs when he reads it and you look at him, eyes raw with lack of sleep.

“Hospital,” he snaps, a clear order after hours of half-demented ramblings.

You stand up. There's nothing else left you can do.

***

“Give me your gun,” he says impatiently.

He never carries weapons. That's what he's got you for. You hand him your Beretta without a word, but he isn't even looking at you.

“You know what to do, go on then,” he says, waving you away. You take a few steps and turn back to him, struggling for words.

He looks up at the roof of St Bart's, at the building on the other side of the street, and then around again, at you. You lock eyes with him.

After a few seconds he crosses the distance in a few quick strides and lunges, kissing you the way you did when you first kissed him, full of desperate aching _want_. You dig your fingers into his neck, trying to keep him close as long as possible, but he pulls away far too soon and walks away without another glance back.

_***_

“All tales end,” he whispers in your ear.

***

The sound of a gunshot, clear and unmistakable.

***

_and they lived happily ever after_

_***_

The phone falls from your nerveless fingers.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_These violent delights have violent ends_  
_And in their triump die, like fire and powder_  
_Which, as they kiss, consume_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Epilogue: The Empty House**

It's raining.

Not proper rain, just a typical English drizzle, nowhere near enough to douse the fire. There are sirens in the distance, firemen coming, but they’ll be too late. You know how to engineer a fire, how to make sure all the evidence disappears.  _Evidence_ , like the flat is a scene of crime, although fuck knows there’ve been a lot of illegal things happening there.

You're hiding not too far away, watching. It's probably a risk, but -

But somehow, you just can't bring yourself to care.

You light a cigarette and for a moment you can almost imagine a gloved hand darting out and stealing it from between your lips.

James Moriarty is dead, and that should be it. No more games, stop all the clocks, let the world dissolve into ashes. What’s the point of life, of _anything_ without him?

It took you days to realise that this isn't it, not yet. ‘Cause you're still alive, and Jim's old words have been echoing in your head.

_What do you see?_

You saw a dark-haired man fall from a building. You saw a closed-casket funeral, and John Watson mourning. You saw Molly Hooper standing by, a strange expression on her face.

You saw enough to make you doubt.

( _you saw a glassy smile, and blood, and eyes wide open, staring at the sky, unseeing)_

So this isn't over, and that's why he did everything to hide you from the Holmeses, because of course he foresaw this possibility. Planned for it. He wanted you to be his life insurance, his just-in-case, a time bomb ready to start ticking the second he died. And the Holmes brothers don't even suspect you exist.

Unlike the other criminals.  _Moriarty's Ghost_  they call you, and isn't that fucking  _appropriate_.

The rain picks up, lightning cracks through the air, and two black vans pull up in the street. A few people get out, staring up at the flaming inferno that used to be your home. Mycroft Holmes is among them, hands folded behind his back. It’s too far to see his expression but you can’t imagine he’s very pleased, seeing all those valuable clues going up in flames.

You take a deep drag and the tip of your cigarette glows red.

_I'll burn them_

The fire reaches the second floor, where the chemicals are stashed. There’s an impressive explosion and people dive away into cover. Everyone except Mycroft Holmes, who keeps staring at the flat. He’ll know, of course, know this isn’t accident. Maybe he’ll even realise that this was someone else’s work, someone Jim trusted enough to give his address to. You can't stay hidden forever. Not that you plan to, anyway.

_and you know what_

Holmes turns, and for a split second your eyes meet, even though you're sure he can't see you in the dark, nothing here but a dark shadow and the glow of your cigarette.

_it won't be enough_

Jim was right, it won't be enough. But that won't stop you from doing it. There’s more than one kind of fire, more than one way to destroy a man.

One last job.

You throw down your cigarette and disappear.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **a note on Jim’s death:** because I suspect I might be getting this question a lot. Jim might be alive: it might have been yet another of his brilliant impossible plans, he might have faked his death because he knew it was the only way to make Sherlock drop his guard, he might be biding his time in Barbados right at this time; or, JIm might be dead: it might be that the things in his head finally caught up with him, that he finally broke and that the only way out left for him was suicide.  
>  But this isn’t Jim’s story, this is Sebastian’s story, which means all that matters is that Seb _believes_ Jim is dead. And will act accordingly.  
>  (basically? Jim is Schrödingers cat)
> 
> On another note: I'm not done playing in this sandbox! I have a sequel planned, which may or may not be actually written, depending on what happens in series three. Apart from that, I've got at least one chapter-length piece that didn't make it in, as well as several other bits and bobs that fit into this universe (which will be posted in the This Life Is A Trip collection)   
> ETA: sequel is in the works! As is a part three. Additionally, there are a few other stories set in this 'verse, which you can find in the This Life Is A Trip series.
> 
> And if you're feeling especially sad and want cheering up, you might want to check out the outtakes and prompts, which is where I'm going to dump all my crack and fluff and kittens.
> 
> And that's it, for now. Thank you for reading!


End file.
